


The Good Box

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Author is permanently Johnlocked, Best Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Not good coping mechanism, Post-Reichenbach, References to Drugs, reparations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5260508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock returns to London his friendship with his once best-friend, John Watson, is seriously strained, but who can blame John for being seriously outraged for Sherlock's choices? His indignation creates a situation that forces him to take another look at his reactions and their consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft

He’d been dragged to a cold warehouse yet again. John fumed as he glared at the tall ginger man in front of him. “I find you incredibly ungrateful Doctor Watson.” Mycroft began without preamble and his voice was cold.

John was taken aback. _How was_ he _ungrateful? He was the one who had lost everything thanks to Sherlock Holmes! Thanks to his best friend John had lost two full years to grief, had lost his wife, had lost his child, he had nothing left! Was he supposed to be grateful for that_? “I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel that sentiment is justified!” he said hotly.

“I know full well that you don’t and it is _appalling_. I am providing clarification for my only sibling’s sake, not _yours,_ so listen carefully doctor. My brother has just spent two entire years sacrificing himself to save _you!_ He allowed his hard-earned career go up in flames. He allowed people to mock him openly, to judge him in the court of public opinion and all for _you_ John Watson! He freed you from the depraved clutches of an assassin _who shot him through the heart_ while pregnant with a child that was not yours. How have you responded to these many acts? You won’t speak to him. You won’t look at him. You won’t be his friend but you also won’t leave. You are destroying him more completely than he was ruined after he flung himself off the top of that building to keep _you_ from dying.”

Remotely John knew those were the facts but no one had as yet presented them to him in quite that way. Mentally he began reviewing his own behavior and he grew pale. He had snapped at Sherlock the last time he’d bothered to actually say anything to the detective. Sherlock had grown withdrawn, spending most of his time in his room.  John had been angry for so long it was like he didn’t know how to feel any other way. He had been angry with himself when Sherlock had died because he wasn’t convinced that he hadn’t missed a clue that might of saved his best friend’s life. Then he had been angry with Sherlock when he found out that the detective was actually alive. John was angry with Mary when he found out that _not only_ had she shot Sherlock which nearly killed John as well, but that he had married a woman _who didn’t even exist_ , and she had been blithely planning on raising some stranger’s baby with him. John had so much anger in him he didn’t know how to breathe, it seemed every minute of the day had been made up of frustration, grief, and misery. Now he was struck at how he had been to the _only_ person who had put him before everything else, _Sherlock_ , “I am such a prick!” he groaned, self-loathing welling up. He was trash!

“Not the superlative I would have used but adequate.” sniffed Mycroft, still looking at John as if he were excrement, “Despite my grave misgivings regarding your continued association I must assure you that should you choose to leave 221 B Baker Street you will most certainly be ending Sherlock Holmes completely. He cares for you Doctor Watson, though _why_ you should deserve his devotion is beyond me. You have treated his feelings cavalierly for years now; you have kept him at arm’s length, and tormented him with your endless dalliances because of your impenetrable obtuseness. No one in the world has the attention of Sherlock Holmes the way you do and yet you do not _see_.”

John was going to be ill, he _really_ was going to be ill. He recalled of all his dates, how Sherlock always looked so sad, how he looked lonely enough that John had sometimes wondered if Sherlock wanted to come along but what a travesty of an offer that would have been! _Oh hey Sherlock, I see you’re pining for me, why not come on my date so you can watch me go to bed with someone else right in front of you?_ John stumbled back and Mycroft sneered again, “You will be pleased to know that I’ve had to relieve Sherlock of a variety of street drugs on no less than seventeen occasions since you returned. His life with you must be absolute heaven.”

 _Drugs? Sherlock was buying drugs again?_ John was reeling. Sherlock had been clean for so long, even when he’d been undercover all that time he hadn’t slipped but now…John clutched his head, what had he done? “I have to see him.” Sherlock was in danger and John had put him there. What kind of person was he? _He was a heartless monster!_

“ _Why_ Doctor Watson? Is it to tell him how he ruined your life? Is it to tell him how inhuman he is and how he doesn’t have a heart? Perhaps you will like to communicate one more time about his inability to feel anything and how he has no idea what _real_ suffering is.” Mycroft’s voice became icier, harder. “You’ve seen the scars Doctor Watson. He didn’t get those in a bicycling accident. His captors were torturing him when I found him and it wasn’t the first time he had been so questioned. That lovely greeting you gave him when he showed up at _The Landmark_ , do you know you tore his stitches that evening and that when you left him on the street he collapsed only two blocks away? If I hadn’t been watching he would have bled out on the pavements for real, not that you would have cared, because even after Mary shot him through the heart and nearly ended him you still chose _her_ over _him_ , and even now after everything has been exposed you are angry with _him_ and not her. You are _contemptible_. Even after James Moriarty reappeared and took Mary back you were angry with _Sherlock_ and not the individual who created this entire debacle to begin with. People call Sherlock a _freak_ but of the two of you who is more defective as a human being?”

“Where is he?” demanded John. He was beginning to experience real panic now. He needed to see Sherlock. He had to fix this, he had to begin fixing it _this instant_. There was no time to waste. Anxiety began to grown as the John’s mind relentlessly recounted the far too frequent instances that now needed reparation.

“If we’re lucky he’s still laying on the sofa at Baker Street with a needle hanging out of his arm. He’s devious when he’s motivated.” John felt his gorge rise but he fought the impulse to be ill. He needed to get back to Sherlock. “Moriarty wasted his time trying to kill Sherlock; he should have merely left you two alone. Sherlock would have ended himself before this.” Mycroft’s words stung and burned but John said not a syllable in his own defense. Mycroft couldn’t flay him hard enough, John deserved every lash.

Anthea was waiting to bring him back to Baker Street and the look she gave John, that blank, featureless glance that said he was so worthless that his entire existence was being erased from her mental hard-drive on a second-by second basis, well John deserved that too. She said nothing the entire long trip and John grew more and more anxious with each passing minute.

When he got to Baker Street he was frantic. Would Sherlock actually have a needle hanging from his arm or had Mycroft merely said that to frighten John? It was working. The soldier was terrified because he was the one who had broken his friend’s great will and gave him nowhere to turn. John burst through the door and stared at Sherlock who _was_ splayed bonelessly over the sofa and staring at the fireplace. The air was thick with smoke. It was sweet and fragrant but what John really noticed was how Sherlock looked. The man was rail thin, his robe barely concealing a body that was bonier than it had ever been, his pale face bruised with dark circles of exhaustion and misery under his eyes, and a mouth that had not smiled in weeks. “Sherlock.”

“Mrs. Hudson gave it to me so you don’t have to complain that I’ve taken her herbal soothers. You were supposed to be gone all day; I would have had the flat aired out before this. I’ll go to my room to finish.” Sherlock’s words were clipped and emotionless as he sat up gracefully. He had everything on a small tray in front of him, a pile of green herbs, a packet of thin papers, lighters, and even an ashtray. Without pause he stood and stalked away, shutting the door to his room almost silently behind him. John stood in the doorway and didn’t know what to do.

“John?” Mrs. Hudson was calling from downstairs, “A word.”

“Yes Mrs. Hudson.” said John blankly. He closed their door and went down to her flat where she was standing in her kitchen with her shawl wrapped tight and her lips pressed together angrily, “It’s all my fault.” he confessed without prompting.

“Yes it is Doctor Watson.” John was in such trouble. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t called him _Doctor Watson_ since he first moved in! “I caught him sneaking off again and I knew very well why. Don’t you dare scold him again, don’t you dare! It’s not my place to comment Doctor Watson but…”

“ _It is all my fault Mrs. Hudson_.” repeated John vehemently, “I’ve been absolutely awful and I know it. I came back to try and fix this mess somehow, this is all on me. Please, let me go before he does something, I need to talk to him.” John was pleading and Mrs. Hudson looked very serious.

“Doctor Watson, Sherlock is a very good person, a very _sensitive_ person. He’s been very brave but a body can live with only so much pain. I had thought you two…well you are _his_ best friend Doctor Watson and I thought _he_ was yours. I just don’t know what to think now.” John was ready to cry because Mrs. Hudson looked so disappointed in him and he deserved all of it.

“I have to go see him. I have to go now.” he said miserably. “Please.”

“ _He_ will always have a home here.” she said sharply and John didn’t need her to say more than that. While he waited she assembled a tray of snacks for Sherlock and silently he accepted it. John understood that if he mishandled this situation then he would lose more than his best friend, he’d lose everything and the doctor would deserve that too, and so much more.

John went to the kitchen and made tea. When everything was ready John went and tapped at Sherlock’s door. The air was thick again but John had expected it to be so, “May I come in?”

There was a long pause but eventually the door clicked open enough for John to be able to toe it open the rest of the way. Sherlock had sat himself on the floor beneath his window which was propped open a few inches. He’d taken the pillows from his bed and made cushions of them, leaning against the wall as the smoke from joint between his lips wafted up and out lazily, “What do you want John?” he said listlessly, “I’m not done yet.”

“You plan on smoking that whole pile.” John eyed the plate. It was a substantial amount.

“That was the plan. Why, are you taking it away from me?” Sherlock took a long drag and held it easily, exhaling out the window half-heartedly. Most of it stayed inside.

“No. I brought you some tea and some snacks.” Sherlock’s eyes were cautious and his face was still blank. John set the tray down in front of him and nodded to the other pillow beside Sherlock, “Do you mind?”

Sherlock shrugged elegantly and offered John his joint. A flicker of astonishment crossed his face when John took it and inhaled easily. Marijuana wasn’t new to John, he’d been in the army a long time and sometimes there were very few ways to escape, “You’re always a surprise.” murmured the tall man sadly.

“You mean in between the times I’ve dedicated myself to being an oversized arse?” said John, “I’m here to apologize to you Sherlock. I’ve been absolutely horrible to the one person I should be thanking every minute of the day and I want to make it up to you. Sherlock, I’m so sorry I’ve taken my anger out on you. You did not deserve that. You _are_ my best friend in the whole wide world, and the most important person in my life. I’m so, so, _so_ sorry for reacting in the worst possible way so many times. I don’t have anything to say in my defense. I’m wrong, I’m a jerk, I don’t deserve your forgiveness _or_ your friendship but I am hoping desperately that you will forgive me just enough so I can begin earning back the rest of your forgiveness properly.”

“You really are an idiot.” said Sherlock, his expression unchanged.

“I _really_ am, that’s what I’m saying.” said John as Sherlock handed him the smoke again. The tall pale man took another drag, “All this time I’ve been thinking all the wrong things for all sorts of ridiculous reasons and I really _am_ an idiot. I don’t know how you’ve tolerated me this long.” Sherlock took the joint back and took a drag deep enough to burn it down to his fingers. He put it out carefully and just rolled another one, “You really are planning on smoking that entire pile.” said John. His apology was pathetic but he was in such a state he couldn’t make the words come out the way he intended. John was absolute rubbish.

“Yup.” said Sherlock, popping the very last consonant clearly, “I made a plan. This is it. I have no desire to fail again.”

John felt dismal and he was really starting to feel stoned. He hadn’t smoked pot for years and he hadn’t been much of a smoker to begin with, just the odd hit here and there on leave when the world was too much to deal with and taking the edge of somehow was mandatory. Sherlock looked completely unaffected and rolled a thick replacement which he lit with careless ease. He didn’t offer John at first but eventually he waved it at the doctor who took one more hit before shaking his head, “That’s enough for me.” Sherlock shrugged and stared off into the distance, “I made tea.” offered John. He really was making a botch of this entire apology, was there _anything_ he could do properly?

“I’m having a cigarette.” said Sherlock in response and he pulled a half-full pack out of his robe pocket, “Want one?”

Smoking marijuana was one thing but cigarettes? John almost shook his head to refuse but when he saw the mocking look on Sherlock’s face he changed his mind, “Just this once.” he said and drew one out. Sherlock was surprised all over again but lit them both, dropping the lighter back on the plate. John drew in the hot dry smoke and almost coughed. It tasted fragrant and his tongue tingled for a moment.

“Amateur.” said Sherlock who took a long easy drag and slumped back before releasing it, “I’ll take my tea now.”

John handed it over and watched as Sherlock sipped it slowly. When his cigarette was complete John felt light-headed and a bit dizzy. He took a drink and ate a piece of orange. He watched as Sherlock reached a hand out and picked up some of everything and began to eat quietly. When their tea was gone John managed to get himself up. He had to hang onto the kitchen counter while the kettle boiled but he managed to make two cups, putting slightly more sugar than normal into Sherlock’s. He really was an amateur at smoking but whatever it took to make those first steps to making things right with his hopefully still best friend was what he would do.

When he carried them back Sherlock was just returning from the loo. John saw that Sherlock had also thrown down his duvet so it looked like they had a small slumber party going on under his window. The room was still hazy so before he sat down John went out front and fetched back all their emergency candles and some saucers. Sherlock helped him melt them onto the plates before they set them around the floor. Sherlock shut his bedroom light off and sat himself back down.

John watched as Sherlock expertly rolled another joint but this time the detective offered it to John first. John took it and lit it, taking a long drag before handing it back to Sherlock who leaned back to enjoy the rest of it undisturbed except for the occasional sip of tea. At any other point of their relationship John would have objected loudly and strenuously about Sherlock utilizing an escapist tactic like drugs but marijuana was the least harmful choice Sherlock could have made, and John had a difficult time reconciling it as a drug to begin with. From what he’d observed most users tended to be perfectly functional, even overly eager to keep busy if the amount of baking Mrs. Hudson did was any indication. Sherlock however merely slumped in one spot, hardly moving and not doing anything except smoking ceaselessly.

“I know you’re mad at me.”

“Do you?”

“Well you ought to be. I’ve been a complete shit to you for months now.”

“Ah.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

Sherlock sat quietly for a long time and reached for another cigarette. He smoked half of it before he answered, “I expect you to leave at some point John. I’ve done everything I can to be a good friend to you and all I’ve gained for my efforts is a great deal of discomfort. I appreciate that you feel remorse at the moment but it doesn’t change the fact that for the last several weeks I have borne your rancour at full value and I’m afraid I can’t deal with that kind of stress any longer. After you leave I will find some way of bypassing both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and I will take care of the rest. I shan’t trouble anyone any longer.”

Sherlock was perfectly calm as he informed John about his plans to kill himself. “You can’t mean that. We can fix this! I’m apologizing and admitting how awful I was. I don’t want to be like that anymore! I want to be a proper friend to you, someone you can rely on and respect.”

“I _did_ want that John and now I _don’t_. It’s very painful to admit this so I’m going to pause for a moment,” Sherlock rolled another joint and lit it without hesitation, “Mycroft interfered. I know he did. You would not be here now saying these things if he had not stepped in. No thank you John. Apology _not_ accepted. My brother made you feel guilty. All I’m hearing is manufactured penitence because someone else was required to open your eyes to the fact that I am _sick_ , and I am _tired_ , and I am _heart-sore_ , and I am _fed up_ , and I am simply _done_ John. I have tried everything. I’m exhausted from trying. I give up. Go live your life, go be with people who will betray you without apology, go choose absolutely anyone at all to share your special moments with, just forget that you ever knew someone named Sherlock Holmes, and please, just _go_.”

Sherlock took another deep drag and looked blankly straight ahead, his face as expressionless as it had been when John first walked into the room. Mycroft had told John right to his face that this was Sherlock’s plan. If John left Sherlock would die by his own hand and no one could stop him. “I don’t want you to die.”

“That doesn’t matter to me any longer.” said Sherlock, his voice empty and hollow, “It did once but for no purpose it turns out. You can stop feeling any responsibility John, just _stop_. I don’t want to hear what you have to say, not like this. Anything you might say to me has no weight; your words are as false as our friendship.”

John’s heart stopped beating. He sat there and stared at Sherlock in total horror, “It’s not false.”

“It is.”

“No. It’s the most important friendship of my life.”

“I thought the same but it turns out that it’s not so. You are not my friend John Watson. A friend might thank someone for stopping a sniper from putting a bullet through their brain but you didn’t. A friend might have told the woman he didn’t love that he wasn’t actually going to marry her instead of forcing someone to plan his wedding with her. A friend might have felt his best friend’s second near death experience noteworthy enough to leave said woman but it turns out that six months convalescence doesn’t add up to the value of a nice shag with a female, even if it’s one who has lied to your face the entire time you were acquainted. A friend might have appreciated the fact that someone was there to give you a home when the same woman abandoned you, and that a friend was there to clean you up night after night when you’d come back here reeking of alcohol and whatever other random woman you managed to find, all of whom were of more significance to you than I was. A friend might have said happy birthday but instead the only greeting I got was from my brother who has the day programmed into his calendar because he wouldn’t remember on his own. A friend might have…” Sherlock stopped and took another drag, “We are _not_ friends John Watson.”

John had never hated himself so much. Sherlock’s birthday! He’d forgotten. Mrs. Hudson tried to ask him about a cake, he remembered that much because she had to go help her sister who’d broken her hip and Mrs. Hudson made him promise to remember but he hadn’t. Of course Sherlock had lost hope, John had not given him the slightest sliver of consideration. “I’m begging you Sherlock, please, let me make this up to you. I don’t want you to die. I admit freely that I’ve been horrible. Please Sherlock, give us a chance to fix this. You are everything to me! I can’t lose you again! Please! _Don’t you see how watching you die destroyed me?_ ”

John didn’t realize silent tears were running down his face until Sherlock turned to look at him curiously, “John?”

“What, no one told you? No one told you I was a drunken wreck for months? What about this?” John pulled up his sleeve and Sherlock gasped audibly, “All this time and you haven’t noticed? You’re slipping Sherlock.” There was a long angry scar that ran from John’s wrist almost to his elbow, “How do you think I met Mary? She was the ER nurse or so I thought. I always wondered who found me, no one’s ever admitted to it.” John tugged his sleeve back down and stared at it, “I missed you. I stopped living. I didn’t want to any more, not when I’d watched my best friend, the absolute center of my universe throw himself off the very same building where we first met. I watched you die right in front of me Sherlock. Two years I had that image in my head. Two nightmare filled years of screaming myself awake. Two years of dreaming of feeling your wrist under my fingers, how sick I felt because no matter how I searched I couldn’t find a pulse. I can’t even eat Chinese food anymore because it reminds me of you and I’m so angry that I felt like that for so long and it was for nothing. I spent two years drowning in grief for a person who showed up in the middle of a restaurant dressed as a waiter and made me look like the most gullible fool in the world right in front of the woman I thought I loved. Now she’s not even that it she? She’s not anything to me but another sign that I John Hamish Watson am the least worthy person on the planet and I am sorry Sherlock. I am really _sorry_.”

John got up and walked up to his room. This was too intense. He couldn’t manage the pressure of it a moment longer without disgracing himself. With clenched jaw and even tighter fists John pushed his way into his room and locked the door shut behind him. When he was safe he fell to the floor on his hands and knees and clutched at the thick carpet that was haphazardly strewn between the door and his bed. John struggled to breath. His vision was blurring and he hoped the strange sensation in his throat wasn’t him screaming. He heard a deep pounding and his heart was going to explode out of his chest. He dropped his head down and fisted his hair, making himself as small as possible as he lost control of his senses and he was gone.

_So much pain._

_John hurt all over._

_His shoulder!_

_Oh god no!_

_Sherlock’s blood on his hands, it never washed away. For months John had scrubbed and scrubbed and for months the stain remained._

_Something was torn inside him and it hurt._

_He wanted to cry out but his throat was closed, he couldn’t breathe!_

“Yes you can John, you _can_. Slow. We’ll take it slow.”

A soft deep voice was in his ear as the world moved and John felt something warm wrap around him, something solid, something firm and safe, something that protected and sheltered John as he wept in the blackness, gasping in one ragged breath after another. A gentle finger swept tears away from John’s tight shut eyes, and more scratched at his head until his body wasn’t one big hurt. Sherlock was lying on the bed with him, spooned up tight behind John, holding onto him and comforting him. John twisted around and held his best friend as tightly as he could as he released years of misery.

“I hurt you John and I am sorry.” Sherlock sounded as regretful as John felt.

“I hurt you worse and I am so _very_ sorry Sherlock, please, I know I don’t deserve it but I’m begging you to let me try to…try to…” John was still dazed and he couldn’t articulate what he wanted to say. Sherlock just settled himself closer and kept stroking John’s hair, “ _Sherlock_.”

“I know John. I understand. I’m tired and I want to sleep.” John held on to him, reluctant to give up his anchor, it was too soon! Sherlock just reached down and tugged up the coverlet at the end of the bed and smoothed it over both of them, “You don’t have to leave John. I don’t want to go. My heart hurts right now and I’m afraid for you. I don’t want to let you go when you’re still so sad.” The bluntness of his words made John even more aware of how far gone Sherlock still was, this wasn’t helping anything. Fear filled him and desperately the soldier tried to pull himself together.

“Sherlock I can’t live without you.” John felt tears still coursing down but his face, “Don’t kill yourself, don’t do it please don’t do it.” John would beg forever if he needed to, this was all his fault, if the world lost Sherlock Holmes this time they would only have John Watson to blame. If Sherlock could not pull himself out of the despair that John had left him in then he promised himself to follow. They wouldn’t be parted again, not even for that.

Sherlock seemed to sense John’s intent and he curled his body closer still, “I’m sorry I said that John, I’m not going to do that. I won’t do that, I swear John.” Sherlock rubbed John’s back soothingly and brushed his lips over John’s forehead. “We need to rest and to calm down. You stay and I will too.”

“It’s a promise and a deal.” said John. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind that he had pushed his face tight against the tall man’s neck or that his arm was so tightly squeezed against his ribs that John could feel every wasted muscle and prominent bone. The detective was so very thin, John felt wretched. He had so many things to make up for, how could Sherlock ever forgive him for all the time John had hurt him? He still felt anxious and John doubted the feeling would go away until he’d ensured that Sherlock had fully recovered from all that he had endured due to him.

John listened to Sherlock breathing. He could smell the rich scent of marijuana and cigarettes on both of them, but underneath was the calming smell of the detective, that weird combination of spice, musk, and chemicals that was uniquely identifiable, at least to John. It was one of the things that had struck him most intently when Sherlock had returned that day. As realization had sunk in at who had been standing in front of him John realized that he’d recognized his friend even before he’d laid eyes on him, and certainly well before his voice had registered properly, foolish accent be damned. It was the smell that John had missed, the smell that he had mourned over all those wretched months of endless grief. “I’m so sorry.” he said again miserably, knowing words weren’t nearly enough.

“I just want to sleep for a hundred hours John, please. I can’t talk about this right now.” John didn’t doubt it. Sherlock had smoked an excessive amount, he was probably suffering from the effects of insomnia as well as malnutrition. John wanted to cry again but instead he rubbed Sherlock’s back tenderly, his fingers tracing over the knobs of Sherlock’s spine ruefully, willing his friend to fall asleep and get the rest his body was in critical lack of. A long time later a small buzzing snore announced Sherlock’s final fall into slumber, his body limp and unresponsive. John hugged him for several minutes longer before he eased his way out of the bed, tucking Sherlock in tightly and leaving a large note by the bed, “Gone downstairs.”

John set to work. He inspected the kitchen. Their fridge had a carton of milk that was half full as well as expired. John hadn’t spent any time in the flat, keeping away for as many hours of the day as he could manage, dining out for all meals and not caring because he had been working full time at various clinics in order to keep avoiding Sherlock. No wonder the man was wasted away, he likely hadn’t eaten anything Mrs. Hudson hadn’t fed him directly because no one else cared to see that he remembered to get a meal in. If that wasn’t terrible enough and it was so awful John could barely comprehend the amount of guilt he felt over it all but equally appalling was the complete lack of experiments. Nothing. Sherlock had done nothing inside the flat except die slowly in a state of continual rejection and torment. With shaking hands John scrubbed the unit down completely, trying to begin erasing the damage he had done.

Like a ghost John crept out of the flat, bringing his shoes down to the foyer instead of risking a loud step that might wake his friend. Mrs. Hudson was scowling at him from her door, “I need to fill the pantry.” said John bluntly, “If he wakes up I am just at the shops and I am coming right back. He’s napping now.”

Mrs. Hudson’s expression barely changed but she nodded sharply and with hard eyes watched John leave the building. He nearly ran to the store, grabbing a shopping cart and filling it to the brim with absolutely everything he could think of that might be of interest to Sherlock. John also stocked up on various supplies that he knew they’d be lacking because he hadn’t bothered with a full shop in weeks. Shame and chagrin filled him again, food alone wasn’t going to do it but it was a meagre start at least.

He needed a cab to get back to Baker Street and it took him three trips to get everything inside. Mrs. Hudson had noted his return and then had returned to her flat without a word, simply closing her door to him without offering any help. John didn’t blame her, he was a cad. As quietly as he could he ferried everything into the kitchen. Once the bags were in John crept upstairs to check on Sherlock. He hadn’t moved an inch and his snore had died away into the nearly motionless breaths of someone deeply asleep. John changed the note by the bed to read “In the kitchen” and slipped silently away once more.

Once the groceries were stowed away John cleaned the kitchen meticulously after taking a leave of absence from all his jobs. Sherlock was as good as an invalid in John’s view, he needed caring for so with that in mind John put together a rich assortment of vegetables accompanied by pieces of chicken, all of which he covered in a deep layer of water once the seasonings were to his liking. He set it in the oven to bake slowly and set to work on his next goal.

John went to Sherlock’s room and stripped his bedding down. The sheets were cold and damp, if Sherlock had been sleeping it hadn’t been here. Likely he’d caught cat-naps on the sofa and that was it. John used to change their bedding once a week like clockwork because it was easier to wash the sheets all at once and Sherlock was hopeless when it came to working the machines though he’d offered plenty of times. Now it was clear to John that Sherlock had refused even Mrs. Hudson’s endless nurturing, not allowing anyone to offer him even the slightest bit of comfort. John opened the window to let some fresh air in, carefully picking up Sherlock’s tray of marijuana and setting it on the bare surface of his dresser. He let the whole room freshen up while he checked on Sherlock once more time before going to the basement flat to do some washing up. Once it was going he went to check their dinner before he got back to work.

Sherlock had lovely decadent sheets that his mother had sent him and that he never used because he very often brought questionable things to bed if he was still inspecting something but wanted a bit of a lie down as well. He’d offered the sheets to John several times early on but John’s bed was too small, much to his regret. Now the doctor spread them out, making sure every detail was perfect as he located Sherlock’s spare duvet which wasn’t incredibly beautiful but it was certainly cleaner than his expensive one which would need to be sent out.

Bed made and pillows aired out and fluffed to their maximum capability John gathered up Sherlock’s filthy laundry, bagged up his soiled suits as well as the duvet. The doctor then called a specialty cleaning service he knew about due to one of their cases and despite a wince at the cost arranged to have someone pick it all up. Carting it all downstairs John paused at Mrs. Hudson’s to explain who would be coming by and received a silent nod of understanding.

Something John would never admit to a living soul was how much he enjoyed cooking. Now he was grateful for all the time he’d spent watching online cooking shows, and even browsing through the odd cookbook in the stores. He wasn’t fantastic but he at least knew enough to follow basic instructions and his mother had taught him how to make this scone recipe when he had been quite young. He hadn’t forgotten and now he was grateful. Carefully he shaped the bread so it looked as nice as possible and popped it into the oven.

While it was in John took a few minutes to check on Sherlock again before going to the front room to root out all the questionable remains in the sofa and in their chairs, giving everything a good shaking out. Pausing to take the baking out John returned and spent a good hour doing nothing but going around the flat cleaning and tidying as much as he could. The sheets were in the dryer and the next load was going before the service picked up the cleaning, assuring John that all would be returned by the same time the next day. Good enough for now.

Nervously John finished all the chores he could get away with quietly, the hoovering would have to wait for another time but John had taken a broom to the worst of it so at least it looked alright but he wasn’t willing to make a racket. Sherlock needed all the rest he could get. John fretted over how frail his friend was and could not stop himself from checking yet again. Since everything was done, the food waiting to be reheated when they were ready to dine, John sat himself on the edge of the bed and watched Sherlock sleep. The detective looked thin, not just skinny which he definitely was but _reduced_. Sherlock Holmes used to be a vibrant and charismatic man but John could see ample evidence of how his own behavior had removed so much of that old flair and confidence and his heart wanted to burst with the regret he felt.

After a brief shower he couldn’t stop himself. Crawling carefully John inveigled himself back into Sherlock’s embrace, easing under the coverlet until they were snugged back together. He was a tiny bit heartened when Sherlock accepted him back without protest, his wiry arms winding painfully tight around John’s shoulders, and bony legs trapping John’s securely. Ever so gently John secured his own arm around Sherlock’s torso and closed his eyes. He managed to doze lightly while he waited for Sherlock to sleep himself out and was rewarded with a two hour rest before his friend finally began to stir, “John?”

The doctor woke up instantly. Sherlock looked a bit disconcerted as if unsure why he was in John’s arms, “I made dinner if you’re hungry.” Sherlock blinked for a moment before nodding cautiously, “You can grab a shower first if you’d like.” another silent nod was followed by the tall man uncurling himself and leaving the bed. John changed his clothes while Sherlock washed up and got himself back into the kitchen to reheat everything.

The tea was just ready when Sherlock appeared, still a bit damp looking but wearing clean pyjamas that once fit snugly but now hung a bit, even with the robe wrapped tightly. John’s determination grew stronger so he ladled out a large bowl of the rich stew he’d made and put some of the fresh baked scone on a plate, setting everything down where Sherlock normally sat. The detective still didn’t seem to be entirely comfortable but he still took his place and began his meal. John sighed internally with relief. His first offering had been accepted and he was grateful. The food was gentle enough not to disturb Sherlock’s tummy which would be sensitive after being deprived for so long but his body was starved for nutrients. The doctor watched surreptitiously as the dark haired man slowly spooned up all of the broth and without needing to be asked John simply got the pot and ladled in some more. Sherlock didn’t say anything again but he did consume every drop and had half of the bread as well so John was more than happy. The uneaten vegetables and meat were taken away and once provided with a fresh cup of tea Sherlock went to the front room while John cleaned up.

When John came back out he brought a plate of assorted biscuits to set on the coffee table. Sherlock wouldn’t likely eat one but he might be interested later on. The detective was on the sofa, their shock blanket over his knees, and he was re-reading one of his favorite books on anatomy that had been printed at the end of the 1800s, the entirety of which Sherlock found amusing as well as informative. It was filled with bookmarks and post-it notes from being read so many times. John had found it under a stack of old case files, obviously untouched for an incredibly long time. He’d dusted it off and put it back on the shelf where he recalled Sherlock preferred to keep it. John had searched but he could find nothing recent regarding Sherlock’s work, had anyone hired him at all since he’d returned home? Now the man looked entirely engaged but occasionally he would sip his tea and glance over toward John who was reading a cookbook quietly and trying to determine if he was brave enough to attempt one of the trickier recipes. “Telly?”

This was the first word Sherlock had spoken and John wasn’t going to say no to anything, “Sure.” Sherlock clicked it on and searched around until he found a documentary on race cars. The doctor was a little surprised at his choice before he realized that the technical aspects were quite challenging and he could practically see Sherlock’s mind calculating differentials and vectors as they learned about the various factors that went into winning a race. It was a mental exercise, a distraction from their situation which was far from fixed. John was grateful again, Sherlock could have just walked out of the flat to do whatever he wanted to do, weak or not. This was better, much better than that.

Despite sleeping the day away it wasn’t long before Sherlock was beginning to nod off on the sofa, his knees tucked up tight as he squeezed himself into the smallest ball he could, his head twisted at an impossible angle to watch the programme stubbornly, refusing to admit that his eyes were drooping and that he could easily just go to bed. It both broke John’s heart and made him feel better to see him relaxed enough to sleep in front of him. Sherlock had been running on empty for a very long time and one good meal and an extended nap were barely going to register. He still needed a lot of rest and care. John felt horrible all over again, _he_ had made Sherlock like this! This was all on him. “Do you need help getting to bed?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything at first but then he shook his head slowly, “I’m going.”

“You’ll rest better being stretched out.” replied John, trying not to smother his friend but at the same time feeling the uncontrollable urge to pander to absolutely every need Sherlock might have. John was willing to do anything at all if it made Sherlock feel better in any conceivable way. If Sherlock let him John would be turning down the coverlet for him and tucking him in once again but he held himself back and watched as Sherlock silently shut himself away for the night.

John sighed and straightened up the room, quickly washing the few remaining dishes before he got ready for bed. There was nothing but silence from Sherlock’s room and John had the urge to press his ear to the door to see if he could hear Sherlock breathing before deciding that was going a little too far. He made himself go to bed instead, treading as lightly as he could so as not to disturb the hopefully sleeping detective.

John’s bed smelled like Sherlock. His pillow was rich with the scent of the taller man and there were several ebony hairs coiled up here and there on the sheets. For another tempting moment John almost talked himself into sneaking back downstairs just to double check that Sherlock wanted for nothing, and to make sure his rest was as comfortable as possible. Once again he held himself back and kept his impulses in hand. Instead he chose to be thankful that Sherlock was still with him, that the man had gotten a bit of dinner in, and was safe. He could not ask for more.

It had been a long and emotionally exhausting day so John had no trouble dropping right off into sleep and directly into a nightmare. He was walking the pavements in front of St. Bart’s with Sherlock, only the man had a great wound on his head that dripped blood endlessly. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice it and wouldn’t let John tend it, brushing him off more and more until he walked off too quickly for John to follow, disappearing around the corner of the building, leaving a trail of scarlet droplets in his wake. That he’d had this dream in a thousand different ways didn’t stop John’s teeth from clenching tight in the real world, agonized whimpers automatically stifled with his hand even as his sorrow scarred  mind tormented him with the worst day of John’s life, the day Sherlock died.

After the detective was discovered to be alive the nightmares had ebbed briefly but John’s brain was clearly accustomed to producing them so soon after they resumed, and then, they got worse. John never got further in his dream than the point where he was clutching Sherlock’s wrist, shouting and trying to explain the he was Sherlock’s friend, and that he wasn’t dead. _He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Not Sherlock._ Old familiar grief flooded him, washing the nightmare away with tears that John did not know he shed, or how he sobbed Sherlock’s name pitifully into his pillow, the word inaudible to all except the tall frail man standing in the darkness. “ _He’s my friend!”_ cried out John as hopelessly as he had that awful day and John knew Sherlock’s blood was on his hands once more. He didn’t wake up when long bony fingers carded through his short hair but the nightmare faded away and his tears dried. John continued to sleep restlessly after he was once again alone in his room and it was well before dawn before choked off cries startled him out of his shallow sleep. _Sherlock!_

John stumbled out of bed and down the stairs, tapping lightly John debated for only a moment before pushing the door to Sherlock’s room open. Sherlock was curled up in the center of the bed, his long fingers laced into his hair, tearing at it a bit. He was breathing hard, anxiously, as if he couldn’t take in enough air and John realized that this flatmate was having a panic attack of his own!

The soldier didn’t hesitate. Without pause John got onto the bed with Sherlock, unwound him from the tight coil he was in and like before managed to get himself back into the tall man’s arms. Those same arms squeezed John hard and Sherlock’s legs trapped John’s as well. John’s face was crushed to Sherlock’s shoulder a bit painfully but he made not one move to complain, his friend could do whatever he needed to do. Slowly John rubbed his hand up and down, gently applying pressure to relax his friend’s tense muscles and hopefully sooth him.

John’s eyes were shut firmly as he took in the feel of gnarled flesh, the jagged lines of badly healed wounds that marred the once alabaster perfection of Sherlock’s skin. All of this suffering, and all for John. Despair filled him, how would he ever be able to apologize to Sherlock enough for his cavalier attitudes? How blind he had been, Mycroft was right. No one in the entire world had ever been in Sherlock’s life the way John had and even before everything went sour the doctor had known that but it still had not registered properly. _What was wrong with him? The man clinging to him right now literally paid in blood the price it cost to keep John safe and John had treated him in the worst possible way as a thank you_.

Remorse was going to be a feeling that John would likely never be rid of. He couldn’t fix this for his sake, he needed to do it for Sherlock, all for Sherlock. John had already been selfish enough for ten men, he didn’t deserve even a scrap of consideration, not from anyone. No matter how long it took John was going to do whatever he needed to do to heal Sherlock’s damaged spirit. Carefully he continued petting Sherlock’s back until his friend was sleeping properly once more, his body limp and unmoving. John tried to ease himself away but Sherlock wasn’t having any of it. Like a vice his arms and legs cinched more firmly around the soldier until John stopped moving and then they loosened. When John tried to ease away as second time it happened again. Well, Sherlock’s bed was very comfortable and they’d already slept together once, and if this is what his friend wanted then alright. Oddly when John attempted to roll into a better position for his bad arm Sherlock was instantly accommodating, shifting himself with the doctor until they were spooned together, long limbs snaking out to recapture the soldier and lock him into place. Sleep came easily.

 


	2. Change of Attitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has been rather harshly schooled by Mycroft Holmes regarding his perceptions of Sherlock. Now John is aware of his own short-comings and failures, and is figuring out how to repair the damage he's done to his best friend.

Sherlock was in the bathroom when John woke the next morning so he just got up, quickly remade Sherlock’s bed neatly, and went up to his room to get his robe and wait his turn. Sherlock locked himself back into his bedroom the minute he was done and by the time John came down to have a shower the doctor could smell cigarette smoke coming from the bedroom. _Well, at least Sherlock probably had the window open, a bit at any rate_. John said nothing and just washed up.

Once he was clean and dressed for the day the cigarette smoke coming from the detective’s room had become noticeably sweeter and muskier. John sighed but still said nothing. Instead he carefully mixed a batch of pancakes and made a pan of sausages to go with them. Sherlock appeared at the table just as everything was ready and silently John gave him his tea before presenting him with a full plate of food and turned his back so Sherlock would feel free to add butter and syrup at his own discretion. He did notice that the dark shadows beneath Sherlock eyes had lessened a tiny bit, and that the awful strain on his face seemed to be gone. That was a relief albeit a small one. The man was still gaunt and ill looking, and John worried. Sherlock didn’t eat a lot but he managed a moderate size meal before he retired to the front to begin browsing online on his laptop.

Sherlock wasn’t working and John didn’t know when he’d been out of the flat last. He had ignored Sherlock so completely recently that he didn’t know anything for certain, and the now familiar sense of shame and remorse filled him. He had to try something, anything at all to reach out to Sherlock, “Do you feel like going for a walk? It’s nice out today.” John rather enjoyed rambling walks through the city and Sherlock used to as well. It had actually been ages since they enjoyed a stroll together.

Sherlock looked suspicious, “I’ll want to smoke.”

“Well I probably won’t but I’m not stopping you.” John couldn’t smoke more than very occasionally. It just wasn’t his thing but he wasn’t going to make decisions like that for Sherlock. If the man wanted to smoke then he was an adult who was aware of the consequences, he could smoke. “Would you like to go?”

Sherlock looked at his laptop for a minute before nodding one time, “Very well.” The detective looked so young as he unfolded himself from the sofa, set his laptop aside, and pulled on his Belstaff. The heavy woolen item seemed almost too weighty for the man to wear but Sherlock said nothing. John reminded himself not to overtax Sherlock, a nice easy ramble with lots of stops for sit-down rests would be best. He felt a sympathetic twang in his leg and for a long moment wondered if he should search out his old cane to use, or if perhaps the weather was poor enough to warrant bringing an umbrella along, just in case he needed its assistance. John decided against both options. His leg and Sherlock’s not-quite-invalid state would be his guide. If either of them gave out, they’d get a taxi back to Baker Street.

The pair managed to wander the neighborhood in growing circles for nearly two hours before John decided Sherlock had had enough and turned them back toward their flat. The younger man was so pale, paler than his natural complexion could account for. John worried even more, and felt the need to fix things with greater urgency, “Can I treat you to a meal?” he asked hopefully. Sherlock paused for a moment but nodded silently. They stopped for lunch at a small restaurant, dining slowly on soup and fresh bread before meandering the rest of the way back to their flat. Sherlock disappeared into his room to have a cigarette and once again John did not complain because he knew Sherlock could have smoked the entire time they had been gone and had chosen not to. This was better.

John threw himself into making a nutritious and easy to consume meal for his friend, anxious to help Sherlock at least physically recover from his ordeals. Carefully he assembled dish after dish until he had a fair selection ready. Soup for lunch was good but not enough to help Sherlock regain the body-weight he could not afford to lose. He was dangerously thin. Spooning a bit of everything onto a plate John set everything out on the table and went to fetch the detective to dinner.

Sherlock was sleeping on the sofa, his mouth open a bit as he snored softly. Their shock blanket was tucked over his hips but his legs were splayed crazily everywhere and one of his arms was dangling down onto the floor, his fingers bent into a loose fist. John smiled. Sherlock looked so very young again, so vulnerable. _Precious_. With a start he realized he was grinning foolishly at his best friend and caught himself up. _He was acting rather oddly, should he be so touched because Sherlock was still comfortable enough around John to sleep in front of him?_

Unable to stop himself John sank to one knee and gently brushed his fingertips over Sherlock’s shoulder before he murmured softly, his voice tender and whispery, “Dinner is on the table if you’re hungry. You can sleep if you want.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered a bit, “M’hungry.” He still lay there motionless for a moment but then the hand dangling down shifted a bit and came to rest on John’s knee. The doctor immediately covered it with his own, and then Sherlock’s eyes did open. The vulnerability John had seen asleep did not fade and his heart felt like it was bleeding out again when he witnessed the pain inside Sherlock, “I’ll get up.” Sherlock’s voice was gravelly with sleep.

“Let me help.” _John had to. He couldn’t stop himself. He was directly responsible for wounding Sherlock in the one way the scientist could not deal with_. Emotions were never Sherlock’s friend though he had them in plenty. “It’s okay. I made everything you like.” offered John, anxious once again to prove himself someone Sherlock could rely upon to care for him properly. The tall man was still so pale, so worn down, John needed to help him. He _needed_ to.

Sherlock made it to the kitchen on his own though John kept close enough to take his arm should the man need it though clearly he didn’t. He wasn’t debilitated that way, but John didn’t know how else to begin repairing the damage. Sherlock examined his plate with suspicion, “You made all of this?” he poked the various samples with a fork before taking a small bite. Humming softly Sherlock simply began eating without waiting for a reply, tasting each offering one at a time before steadily consuming everything on his plate before drinking his tea. John felt like beaming from ear to ear. He was so grateful Sherlock had accepted his meal. When they were done Sherlock said, “Telly?” again.

John demurred, “I’ll clean up first. Go on. It won’t take me long.” Narrow shoulders shrugged and Sherlock got up to glide away to the sofa. A minute later John heard channels being changed and a litany of _boring_ being repeated as the detective searched for something to entertain him.

“I’ve got some DVDs you might like.” called John. He had a collection of titles in his bedroom where he’d watched on his laptop with headphones in rather than share their common space in the front room. He’d built up quite a collection and promised himself to simply bring it all down for Sherlock’s use. Helplessly John began making a list of the thousand small and wounding actions he’d made his daily habit in the last few months. He had to change _all_ of them, to return to the John who had been worthy of being Sherlock Holmes’ best friend, someone who could be relied upon, and trusted. That horrid feeling was back, and John understood it would take a very long time before he stopped feeling that way, if ever. He was a cad, an utter cad.

“Fine.” replied Sherlock, “Something not dull.” Sherlock sounded shyly pleased with the offer so John went upstairs with haste, sweeping everything into his empty laundry hamper and hauling the entire mess downstairs. Sherlock was a bit of a snob but John had a fair collection of things he thought the young man would enjoy so he picked through his assortment before finding a foreign series that featured a large amount of science, and soon enough the younger man was snorting contemptuously and sneering.

John returned to the kitchen knowing his friend was content and entertained. Washing up took a bit of effort, but before he returned he made another round of tea complete with a helping of assorted chocolate confections he’d laid aside. Sherlock accepted it all without comment, sipping his tea and nibbling on treats even as he scoffed at the inventions being displayed “Completely puerile.” he jeered but did not turn the show off or even turn away for a second.

John smiled to himself when the caustic commentary eventually ceased, and secretly watched as Sherlock became caught up in the storylines and plots, his eyes wide and almost unblinking as the show played episode after episode. Tea was refreshed more than once, and the plate of treats slowly emptied. Eventually the detective’s eyelids began to sag and droop, his body lax and unmoving, “Want to go to bed?” offered John hopefully. Sherlock needed his rest, and naps on the sofa weren’t a good long-term solution.

Sherlock blinked slowly, his eyes fixing on John’s, “Alright.” he said slowly, “I need a minute alone to change into pyjamas first.”

John was the one blinking now as he realized Sherlock had misunderstood his offer, but on the other hand he _had_ accepted it so now John had no way of backing out, or explaining he’d just meant that Sherlock ought to go to bed properly, “That’s fine. I’ll just…um…take a minute too.”

Sherlock nodded sleepily and hauled himself out of the sofa to pad off to his room without further comment. John swallowed hard and took himself up to his room where he put on the thickest and most area covering set of sleepwear he owned. Pausing at the loo to relieve himself and wash up with thoroughness John marched himself to Sherlock’s room. It wasn’t until he was well inside the doorway that his nerve deserted him, “I’ll take the left side if that’s alright.” Sherlock was already in bed and turning off the table-lamp. There was another on the right, and swallowing hard a second time John made himself walk over, climb under the fresh coverlet and sheets, turn the light off, and settle himself in for the night. “Goodnight John.”

That was that. Sherlock clearly drifted off almost immediately and his even breaths relaxed John slowly until his own eyes finally grew heavy. The oddness of the situation eventually faded and he realized he was relieved to be close enough to monitor his best friend closely, and to know he would be right there should dark dreams disturb the detective once again. John fell asleep reluctantly, wishing he could watch over Sherlock somehow but it was so late, and Sherlock’s mattress was one of those expensive ones that John could never afford, and even though the man next to him was thin he put off a tremendous amount of body heat. It was impossible to resist and consciousness fled swiftly.

“ _John_. It’s alright, I’m still here.” blearily John forced his eyes open. He ached from head to toe and he felt damp. _Was he sweaty? What was going on?_ Sherlock’s voice seemed to be coming from far away but the soldier could feel his breath against his ear, could sense the warmth of it against his skin, “John I’m alright, I’m fine, I’m right beside you. It’s over John, that part is over now.” Sherlock sounded concerned, almost frightened, and when John managed to focus on his face in the dimness he could see relief flood the young man’s features. He registered the heat on his shoulder where a long narrow hand now rested, and how one of his legs was trapped between Sherlock’s bony knees. “John?” Sherlock’s voice was so gentle.

“I’m okay.” said John dully, “It’ll pass.” _He was an old hand with nightmares. He’d shake and sweat for a while longer, and with any luck there wouldn’t be tears as well, but it would all pass if he could just breathe_.

He wasn’t expecting Sherlock to pull close, tucking John tight into his arms, and to sling one long leg over John’s hip to hold him tighter still, “I’m okay John, I’m back, and everything will be alright. We’ll sort it all out.” Sherlock was rubbing John’s back soothingly. _What had he said in his sleep to cause Sherlock to react this way?_ Long hard fingers began to work at knots in John’s neck and shoulders and with a weak sigh he gave in, melting into Sherlock’s arms and allowing his face to press against a long smooth neck. “I’m alright. I _am.”_ assured Sherlock again, his breath warm against John’s scalp as he whispered, “We’re going to be okay.”

It was strange to be comforted by someone so frail and thin. Without willing it to happen John wrapped his arm around those jutting ribs and sunken waist to hold his friend just as tightly, “Alright.” he said, the single word almost as much as he could manage at the moment. John took a shaky breath and repeated it, “Alright.”

There was a long but oddly comfortable silence before Sherlock spoke again. His voice was deep and rumbling, John could feel the words against his skin, “I need you in my life John Watson, and it seems that you need me in yours. We can do that, can’t we? We can figure out how to make that happen?” His question was almost childlike and John’s heart ached with the innocence Sherlock so often displayed despite everything the man knew.

“We can make whatever you want happen.” said John staunchly, “Whatever you want Sherlock, ask for anything.” John would do it, no matter what it was.

“Keep sleeping with me. I like it. I like being close to you.” confessed the man almost bashfully and John felt a knot in his heart he hadn’t even been aware of loosen and fall away, “Can we begin there?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” John had no idea where this path would bring them but he knew with utter certainty that he would dedicate himself body and soul to bringing Sherlock whatever happiness could be found for such a rare individual. It was disquieting to realize that his feelings for Sherlock were so complex, that he had to face the now blatant truth. He cared deeply for Sherlock, far more than even being best friends could account for. It was too much to face right now in the dark, especially pressed together the way they were. He did his best to set it aside but it was a fight, and John understood he would need to have a good long think about this, and soon.

“Good. I’m still very tired and you need to rest.” Just like that Sherlock tucked John back into his arms neatly, his hand now engaged in a slow caress up and down John’s spine. “Sleep John.” Just like that John slept.

The next morning John woke to find Sherlock’s face on his belly, one long arm wrapped around John’s thigh. John’s hand was tangled in Sherlock’s curls and clearly had been for some time. Their position felt natural. Gently he loosened his grip, but ran his fingers softly through the chaotic riot, “Good morning.” he said softly.

“You’re very warm.” rasped Sherlock groggily, “Soporific.”

“Ah.” John wasn’t exactly sure if that was a good thing or not except that Sherlock literally snuggled down, his arm tightening around John’s leg and sighed contentedly, “Five more minutes then?”

“Okay.” said Sherlock sleepily and began snoring again almost instantly. John was filled with fondness, his heart warm and light as he continued to indulge himself with Sherlock’s hair, toying with the curls and mapping their erratic pattern over the man’s scalp. It felt good to do so. Another hour elapsed before John needed the loo desperately. “I’m up.” said Sherlock as John nudged him, “Go on then. I don’t want you to have an accident.

John barked out a laugh which didn’t help the situation, and with a snort Sherlock pushed him out of bed and on his way. As soon as John was done Sherlock took his place, locking the door firmly. While John cooked a large breakfast the detective showered, not showing up in the kitchen until he was fully dressed for the day. John repressed a wince as he noted how Sherlock’s suit hung on him, spooning a tiny bit extra onto his friend’s plate instead, “I made coffee this morning, thought that would be a nice change.”

Sherlock loved coffee and John was trying to wean him off of drinking it all through the night, or he had been. Coffee with breakfast was alright but no one should exist purely on caffeinated beverages no matter how many flavors it came in. The detective simply hummed his response and began his meal without a word. John was once again very heartened when Sherlock ate every bite. John decided to pick up some different teas, some would need to be caffeinated for certain but there were several herbal blends they could enjoy in the evening that wouldn’t keep the tall man up forever. “That was delicious John.” John was entirely startled. Sherlock had never complimented a meal before but Sherlock was simply pouring himself another cup of coffee and taking it to the sofa, “I’m using your laptop.” he announced.

John did the dishes and inspected the remains of the groceries. Feeding Sherlock was working out well and John didn’t want to ruin a winning streak by running shy of ingredients. At this time of year the markets were laden with choices so he made up his mind, “I’m going for a bit of a shop.”

“I’ll get my coat.” said Sherlock instantly and John was surprised anew. “It’s nice out.”

It really was, and John was disconcerted at how happy he felt that Sherlock was coming shopping with him. _How odd was that?_ It wouldn’t feel strange though, it had always felt comfortable and natural to be strolling next to the much taller man, especially since they hadn’t really done so in a very long time. Once again shame nearly swallowed the shorter man whole as he understood yet again the vast loneliness that he’d forced Sherlock to live in, that hollow and cold place where the sensitive scientist had been compelled to endure wrongful censure by his only friend. Unable to help himself John reached out and grasped Sherlock’s hand just as he finished shrugging himself into his overlarge coat, “I’m sorry.” he said hopelessly.

Sherlock understood but stood silent, his hand closed around John’s for a long minute, “I know.” Squeezing hard for a second their hands parted and they left the flat. John felt a tiny bit better but now the urge to spoil and pander to his friend’s needs was almost overwhelming. Simply wandering and looking for a long time they ate lunch at a small steamy vendor who sold dumplings, and wandered more hours away simply browsing. John had worked a great deal in the last several weeks, accumulating income from what amounted to two full-time jobs so he didn’t bat an eye when Sherlock walked the stalls to obtain one curious thing after another. John paid for everything without a qualm, simply grateful that Sherlock would let him do this for them, to somehow repair all the damage that should never have happened in the first place. Both men were laden with sacks of things at long last and in companionable silence they returned to Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson was at the door when they arrived and looked them over with a sharp eye. Sherlock stooped to kiss her painted cheeks but John was offered no opportunity to demonstrate his affection. Coolly she turned her back on the doctor and returned to her flat. John sighed and accepted his fate for having landed his own foolish self into her bad graces. Not even Mycroft had managed that and he’d told her to shut up! “It will be well John.” _Sherlock was looking at John with an expression of sympathy!_ “She’ll stop being angry soon enough.” Even more shocking was when Sherlock shifted and nudged John’s bum with a bony knee, “Hurry along John, I want to put these down!”

Startled John began up the stairs, acutely conscious that his behind was right within eye-view of the man behind him who was humming softly to himself as they climbed and John flushed bright red because the hum was very…appreciative. _No that couldn’t be right, Sherlock was just humming. He did that a lot. It did not mean he was checking out John’s behind._ Nonetheless when they reached the landing the hum became faintly regretful before stopping entirely as they went inside.

Sherlock helped put the shopping away. John was stunned into silence once more. Sherlock never helped but here he was, _assisting_. He listened to John who explained what went where and why it lived where it lived. Normally Sherlock shoved everything onto whatever space was available if he even went that far, but today the seasonings were in the right spot, the veg went into the correct crisper, and several pieces of equipment were relocated and assigned their own space so that John wasn’t fishing beakers out of the glasses cupboard when he wanted a drink, though he knew he needed to purchase more to replace the ones he had begun discarding angrily whenever they got in his way. The very familiar feeling of shame and chagrin filled him to the brim.

“It just makes more sense if I use the top shelves John, you can’t reach them anyway.” said Sherlock laconically as he ruthlessly emptied the highest shelves in the kitchen and made John redo his old system, “This way my things are out of the way, I can see them easily, and you won’t have to be troubled with waiting for me to fetch something down for you.” John flushed again. _So he didn’t have arms a meter long like some people!_ Sherlock made the flush burn hot for a different reason when he followed with, “Not that I mind watching you find ways to get things yourself.”

John had sometimes gone so far as to climb onto the counter to reach the top shelves, or stand on a chair, all actions of which would have given Sherlock ample time to view a bit of John that was clearly a point of interest. “Is that so.” he said faintly. He wasn’t sure but it almost sounded like Sherlock was flirting with him. _It couldn’t be so. Sherlock should be mad at John, silently fuming at John, filled with vindictive and murderous thoughts about John_.

“Some things I don’t mind seeing _and_ observing multiple times.” Sherlock was working with painstaking care for once, sorting his glassware by purpose and putting it all away. John’s cheeks burned hot a third time because Sherlock looked over with a rascally smile and a wink, “Research is always desirable, I’ll think on it.”

“Dinner?” floundered John, his voice weak and fluttering.

Sherlock was facing the cupboard again but John could see a large smile spread across the man’s face, “Ravenous.” _Oh gods his voice!_ It was like the distant rumble of thunder if thunder was also velvet and nighttime wrapped together. _How did he do that with a single word?_

“Right.” John’s voice was almost squeaky and he cleared his throat nervously, “I’ll get on that.” Sherlock hummed agreeably once again and resumed his task which seemed to absorb him completely. A little nervous for some reason, John still managed to assemble the correct assortment of things and began to cook. Once he was engaged in slicing and chopping he relaxed, eating little bits of raw vegetables as he worked.

Task completed Sherlock sat himself at the table where John was working and began plucking up peels and seeds, chattering on about reproductive strategies in plants, pointing out all the various adaptions each species had made before ending up laid out for dinner. John was listening attentively, enjoying how Sherlock was bright-eyed and enthusiastic as he nearly raved about the levels of production that went into creating the masala seasoning John had chosen, and then further about the actual pots and spoons the doctor was using, ending on a lecture on metallurgy and ceramics as John dished their meal up. Both men ate in companionable silence again, but this time Sherlock offered to do the washing up, “You do all the housework John, I really ought to help a small amount.”

The detective’s words were so sincerely offered and John was both touched and amused by them, “Just a small amount though.” he teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “A work in progress John, never before have I offered.”

“I know, and I’m properly awed and grateful.” both men were grinning at each other and John’s heart filled with happiness at the brightness of Sherlock’s eyes. He looked merry and full of life and John loved that. “We’ll start with this then.”

“Alright.” Gracefully Sherlock moved to the sink. John realized Sherlock was almost incapable of being still unless he was laying down. The man fidgeted constantly even as he worked, his hips swinging from side to side, or his hands gesticulating dramatically, or his head cocking to one side or the other. John was fascinated and eventually realized he’d been staring at Sherlock for some time now but that the younger man did not seem to mind, in fact, John could swear Sherlock was almost preening in front of him. He was showing John the differences in abrasion the various kitchen products they used were capable of, scrubbing dishes and pots efficiently as he discussed the chemical reactions needed to create soaps of varying degrees of strength, and eventually digressed into a monologue about plumbing. John was riveted. They were doing the dishes and he was getting the most amazing lecture ever about the most mundane task in existence. John said not a word, just drying one item after another until their kitchen was spotless and tidy. “Telly?”

“I’ll make tea.” offered John instantly. Humming agreeably yet again Sherlock seemed to glide away as he was able to do, his shirt a bit damp from accidental splashes, his curls a bit wilder than normal from the steam, a crazy fringe of them cutting half-moons of black against the alabaster of the younger man’s forehead, and John felt his heart thump almost painfully in his chest. _Was it good or bad that he felt a nearly uncontrollable urge to run his fingers through those curls, to tease them back into place gently?_ Taking a deep breath he made himself turn the kettle on and set out everything on a tray.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa as expected but he wasn’t spread out like he normally would be. Instead he was already watching the previews for the movie he had chosen, the seat next to him already supplied with their Union Jack pillow plumped invitingly right where John’s lower back would be, right next to Sherlock. Wordless again John carefully set down the tray and fixed their tea exactly the way they both liked it. A small plate of sweet treats was placed close to Sherlock, and John even went through the trouble of finding the coasters Mrs. Hudson had given them because even though he was a bit of a slob, Sherlock was also almost reverent about old furniture of which 221 B Baker Street was filled to the brim with. John had many times found his books and magazines pressed into service as tea-coasters, and once even Sherlock’s much loved scarf. Sherlock now looked surprised and thoughtful as he carefully set his cup down close to hand, the hand-painted pad doing its job of protecting the ancient patinas and finish of the small table next to him. John expected him to say he needed a minute to have an after-dinner cigarette but instead Sherlock merely reached for the remote and began the movie as John sat himself down in the seat made ready for him.

Sherlock had chosen a comedy, one of John’s old favorites from an American writer he enjoyed. The humor was base and raunchy but also filled with nuance and rich meaning. It was colorful and ridiculous, and both men laughed unabashedly together. Sherlock’s laugh was deep and booming, John was reduced to helpless giggles which seemed to set Sherlock off, and there were points when they were both gasping for breath. Sherlock reached over and squeezed John’s hand once, and John squeezed back before they went back to laughing, trying to sip their tea and nibble on biscuits when they were calm enough.

The film was over far too soon, but once it was done Sherlock had another at the ready. This time he’d chosen an adventure movie, a strange and almost discordant film the featured weird landscapes and eerie music. Sherlock was entranced, growing silent and still as he became absorbed in it all. John found he wasn’t watching the movie anymore, he was back to staring at Sherlock, and once again the younger man didn’t seem to mind, or at least, he hadn’t seem to notice yet. John took in the lines and planes of Sherlock’s face, the strange way his eyes tilted just a bit, the thick lashes that framed eyes that had always struck John as almost alien, beautiful and unique jewels that now sparkled and twinkled. Realized he was waxing poetic in his internal monologue John forced himself to at least face the screen, his own eyes unblinking as he mulled over his reactions toward his best friend. _He wasn’t sure what to make of it all. He was so very anxious to make things up to Sherlock, how far did that really go? It definitely went way beyond food and making their home presentable again. He’d see to the rest of that tomorrow. What if Sherlock wanted more than renewed friendship and a companion? Could he do that? Could he offer himself to Sherlock that way?_

John had never really considered his sexuality until he moved in with Sherlock all those years ago. So many people assumed they were a couple and after a while John stopped fighting it, just going on with whatever business they were about. Sherlock never once refuted it. John realized Sherlock had also always grown sullen and desultory whenever John was dating, acting out a thousand different ways to demonstrate his displeasure, and John had never once picked up his cue. Shame filled him again. _How many times had he hurt Sherlock? How many? Was it possible to count?_ John came to a stunning personal realization. He was perfectly willing to give Sherlock absolutely anything he wanted, all he had to do was ask.

Relaxing back into the sofa now that his momentary crisis had been resolved John found his body growing limp and heavy. The movie was nearly over though so he resolved to stay awake long enough to see Sherlock to bed. Against his will his eyes closed and he drifted off. His dreams were strange and filled with a myriad of dark images but all of that seemed to ebb away when he sensed something warm and gentle skim across the surface of his consciousness, “John, it’s time for sleep.” Sherlock’s mouth was right next to John’s ear. He groaned deeply and almost shivered when Sherlock whispered softly again, “Let me take you to bed John Watson.”

“Yes.” John’s eyes could barely open but he didn’t really need them to. Sherlock led him by the hand to his bedroom where he helped John out of his jumper and trousers, rolling his socks off before tucking him under the duvet. John was out almost instantly, only hazily aware that Sherlock left for a short while but came back smelling of toothpaste and soap and dampness. He’d clearly had a shower. John didn’t realize that he shuffled backward almost instantly, nor did he witness the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face when his arm reached back and tugged the tall man close to his back. Instead John slipped deeper into his dreams as long thin arms tightened around him, and narrow hips snugged up tight. He didn’t register full lips pressing into the nape of his neck, or against the lobe of his ear, but dimly he heard the words, “You make me dream of sweet things.”

John’s dreams were wild and amazing, filled with color and sensation. He rested deeply, untroubled by the strife he’d suffered, his old nightmares displaced by lovelier things. Late the next morning he woke to find Sherlock almost laying on his back, their hands tangled together over John’s navel, and Sherlock’s face crushed into the back of John’s head. The soldier felt warm and pliant, oddly comfortable for someone who had over seventy kilos of broomsticks on top of them. He was aware of how unhealthy Sherlock was, how spare and worn out he was. He needed feeding up, “Breakfast?” offered John from beneath his bony blanket.

“Pancakes again.” rumbled Sherlock sleepily.

“Okay.” obligingly the tall man rolled away and released his grip on the smaller man. John felt cold and regretful as their bodies parted. He’d been enjoying that. Still he shuffled himself off to the loo where he shaved and showered before heading to the kitchen. A loud snore announced Sherlock’s return to slumber and John smiled. _Good. He needed his rest_. Feeling better about things John cooked sausages and mixed up a large batch of pancakes. Digging in the freezer he fished out blueberries and made fanciful animal shapes with berry decorations and features. Eventually a very tousled Sherlock emerged wrapped in his blue silk robe. His face was pale but clear of the dark circles beneath his eyes, he looked merely groggy and not exhausted, and John was filled with relief at the improvement. Sinking down into his seat the detective sipped his coffee and snorted a laugh at breakfast. “I’m beheading everything first.” he announced and did exactly that, neatly dissecting his pancake creatures and consuming them one body part at a time, each bite dripping with an excess of syrup. John was pleased all over again.

Sherlock was wild after that, pacing around and chattering so quickly that John could barely keep up. By the time breakfast was cleaned up the detective was nearly bouncing off the walls, “Let’s go out again today.” offered John who laughed when Sherlock nearly bolted to get his coat and shoes on. Checking online they found a series of entertainments that suited them, going to live exhibitions of new discoveries in science and technology, doing a first time browse of a promising bookstore, and even arguing their way through an antique shop because they both wanted a deeply carved wardrobe they’d stumbled upon, dark and vast, perfect for either one of them but singular in its existence.

“I will buy it but you can keep it in your room if I can at least store things in the drawer part.” declared Sherlock at long last. Their arguments and counter-arguments had eaten up the better part of an hour and had gathered the rapt attention of the entire staff who now stood openly watching the pair square off with each other. John realized they’d fallen into their old habits naturally, there had been no rancour at all in their heated discussion, and he realized that this solution was actually turning out in his favor. The wardrobe was expensive and would set him back considerably but Sherlock’s personal fortunes were vast and generally untouched. He bought his lab supplies in bulk, spent an ungodly amount on fashionable clothing, but otherwise bartered his way through life. Sherlock used his extensive knowledge of everything he was interested in to find whatever he wanted at practically no personal cost outside of legwork. If John really thought about it most of Sherlock’s money actually went toward the homeless network to whom the secretly philanthropic detective paid huge fees for solid tips. John would essentially be getting the wardrobe for the price of a bit of real-estate that wasn’t even his. “I have no room in my bedroom for it but I can’t bear the idea of someone else purchasing it!” explained the detective further.

Sherlock’s room was a museum of oddities that surrounded a bed that was surprisingly Spartan for everything else the space contained. His current wardrobe was packed tight as were his dressers and a variety of trunks he had stacked against the walls. John had no idea what was in there. He was too afraid to look. Sherlock had strange tastes and hobbies and John had nightmares enough. “Are you sure?”

“John, you are using a wardrobe that needed a special key to assemble. It’s an affront to the rest of the furnishings at 221 B. Let it go and we’ll get _this_ delivered. We can donate your old one to someone with no taste.” John rolled his eyes but conceded, watching as Sherlock paid for his purchase with flair, exuberant over the find as if he’d struggled to win it at auction instead of his flatmate. After paying, Sherlock imperiously demanded immediate delivery, shamelessly manipulating the staff until John was watching in amazement as the wardrobe was cleaned, packed, and being loaded onto a lorry with a very surprised looking driver who was further shocked when Sherlock climbed in beside him, “There’s just enough room for you John.” said Sherlock impatiently, “Hurry!”

John found himself pressed tight against Sherlock who took the liberty of winding his arm around John’s shoulder. John kept his hands demurely on his lap, a necessity now because Sherlock’s thigh was long and lean, so warm, and pressed so hard against John’s that the heat from his body was matching the heat John was unexpectedly feeling in a different location. By the time they arrived at Baker Street he was in a bit of a state, confused and anxious as Sherlock herded him out of the lorry to open the door to Baker Street. Browbeating the delivery men Sherlock made them carry the enormous piece all the way to John’s room before bribing them to linger long enough to give John a chance to hastily empty his inexpensive one onto his bed so their new possession could be placed, whisking the apparently offensive but generally harmless storage unit away to destinations unknown.

Sherlock lounged on the end of John’s bed, just idly picking his way through John’s old things as they were given new spots to live. His clothing took almost no time, John owned very little except for his collection of jumpers. John was hanging away the last of his shirts when he caught sight of a very sober faced Sherlock examining John’s war medals. They were all inside a plain and unassuming box, always kept tucked away. John didn’t know how to feel about his medals so he tried not to think about it. Sherlock glanced up at him before gently closing the box, rising from the bed, and placing it inside one of the deep narrow drawers that were officially supposed to be for him. John said nothing and merely continued hanging his clothes away as Sherlock tucked all of John’s small treasures away into the same drawer. When he was done he felt Sherlock’s hand press against his back, long fingers laying over the still florid scar that marred the skin there, “Thank you.” John had no idea what Sherlock was thanking him for, and he had no chance to ask, before he could speak a word Sherlock had turned away and nearly catapulted down the stairs to lock himself firmly in his room.

John went downstairs to make a late lunch. He could smell cigarette smoke and sighed to himself. Whatever it took for Sherlock to cope was still alright with him. Clearly something had occurred to the brilliant young man that had disturbed him, and anxious to offer comfort once again John threw himself into cooking. Almost feverish with desperation to sooth his friend he made a rich soup with amusing animal noodles in it, even going so far as to slice the veg into geometric shapes to add a little zest to the overall concoction. When it was ready Sherlock magically appeared. John sighed with relief. He smelled cigarettes and nothing else so whatever it was that had troubled the young man wasn’t a serious as he had feared.

Sherlock ate with good appetite, something that surprised John. Sherlock normally fought at meal-times, rejecting every bite that wasn’t absolutely necessary for survival. Now he ate his bowl clean, even having an extra roll from the packet John had picked up at the shops. “What do you feel like doing today?”

“Marathon?” suggested the detective with a raised brow. He nodded his head toward the sofa. It was only the beginning of the afternoon, could watching telly for hours be something Sherlock could even manage? “You own at least two series I might not entirely hate.”

“Right then, tea.” John turned and began to make two fresh cups. Sherlock went to the front and got things ready. By the time John returned with the tea he found the Union Jack pillow was plumped and back in the same position as the evening previous. John smiled to himself and said nothing, merely setting things out and settling himself in. Sherlock had chosen a science fiction series that featured a lot of advanced puppetry, and he even grudgingly admitted that the storyline was somewhat intriguing, “I’d give anything to have a ship like that.” he marvelled at one point. John’s smile escaped and with a crooked grin he relaxed into his spot and allowed himself to get into the show.

They were eating takeaway hours later before John realized he and Sherlock were pressed rather close together and had been for some time. It startled him for only a moment before he relaxed again, just stealing a bite off Sherlock’s plate with his chopstick in retaliation for Sherlock nabbing his eggroll. John simultaneously realized they were eating _Chinese_ food and it wasn’t troubling him a jot, in fact it was incredibly delicious. It tasted like old times and happiness, and his heart was as full as his belly. Sherlock was going on about deep space and time travel, worm-holes and began a rather esoteric explanation about the observable universe until John was nearly dizzy with it all. “You’re amazing.” he breathed at long last, unable to hold the words back. It had been so long since he’d been moved to say them.

Sherlock looked startled. To John’s surprise the detective’s face turned a brilliant red, and he looked away suddenly, “Nonsense John, it’s all just speculation.” _Sure, speculation on advanced physics, human physiology, and inter-cultural protocols! Who was able to do that over a show on the telly?_

“Well you’ve impressed the pants off of me!” declared John. He was always so surprised when Sherlock did something like this, it never got old, and it was always breathtaking. The man knew so much, he could have an intelligent discourse about nearly anything as long as it had nothing to do with him actually trying to interact directly with people. Sherlock would be a fantastic lecturer as long as his students realized he would never stick to a single discipline, that’s not how Sherlock worked. Sherlock’s mind worked on multiple levels at all times, processing facts he possessed alongside everything he was taking in every moment of the day.

Sherlock smiled over at John for a second, his eyes sparkling mischievously, “Oh have I?”

Now John was the one blushing when he realized what he had said but his mouth was answering before his brain fully re-engaged, “Possibly.” _Oh my gods he was flirting with Sherlock and Sherlock was bloody well flirting back!_

“I’ll see about verifying the veracity of your statement later.” and just like that Sherlock dropped the entire line of conversation, beginning a new episode as if nothing had happened. John’s cheeks felt hot for a long time, and he refused to look at Sherlock who seemed entirely engaged in the programme once again, shouting at the screen, mocking holes in strategies, and generally enjoying himself.

Sherlock slumped over as he was wont to do, almost hanging over the arm of the sofa, his legs crossed beneath him as his arms waved dramatically. John was acutely aware of how the fabric of Sherlock’s trousers were very well fitted no matter how loosely they currently hung, and that he was in serious danger of doing some very inappropriate staring. Fixedly he kept his eyes on the telly, barely even looking when he reached for a snack, or some more tea. Sherlock seemed to be invading his space even though they weren’t touching. John could still feel the heat of his body, smell the rich complicated scent of him, and he had to swallow hard more than once. At long last they finished the very last episode, the hour now early in the morning, both men limp and groggy, “Bed?” rasped John. Sherlock nodded sleepily and simply wandered off so John followed him. Without a word both men just stripped down to their pants and climbed in side by side. Lights were switched off and soon twin snores filled the air as they drifted off to sleep next to one another, perfectly at ease, and entirely innocent.


	3. Natural Evolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has made a great many decisions about how to repair his relationship with his very best friend, and now it's up to Sherlock to do whatever it is he needs to do to move forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

That’s not how they woke up. John was splayed on his back again, and Sherlock’s head was once more on his soft belly, but this time his long arm wasn’t wound around John’s thigh. This time Sherlock’s hand was planted directly over John’s very thin pants, and clearly at least one part of John was waking up quickly. Sherlock’s snore was soft and almost inaudible but despite his slumber his long fingers were still partially wrapped around the soldier’s rapidly thickening member, only the fabric keeping him from having it fully in his hand.

The room smelled like Sherlock. John was so warm, so comfortable, and becoming more aroused by the second. He looked at the back of Sherlock’s head, and followed the lines of the man’s body downward until John’s gaze paused at the detective’s plush posterior. It was curved so perfectly, muscular, plump but firm, one leg pulled forward so his cleft was pulled a bit open. John wondered what it would be like to fuck a man, or to be fucked. He’d had prostate exams and never enjoyed them, but then he got to thinking of Sherlock’s fingers. They were very long, and Sherlock was quite talented with them. He could have been a surgeon if he’d chosen to dedicate himself to medicine, but instead he’d only learned enough to get by with what he needed to do in the morgue. Still, he’d definitely know what he was doing.

What would it be like to have sex with Sherlock? Probably amazing. John blushed but couldn’t deny that he felt very attracted to his best friend. Despite his protests about his sexuality, John honestly had considered himself straight as an arrow, except when it came to Sherlock, Sherlock who was beyond categorization. He was a class unto himself, and the soldier understood now that part of his long-lasting anger had been the disappointment he’d felt in himself for never once having admitted to himself that he had feelings and urges that only Sherlock’s seemed to trigger, _like now_. Sherlock’s head was a pleasant weight against his abdomen, and his hand was so very warm. His cock twitched a bit and Sherlock reflexively squeezed it a tiny bit. Against his will John moaned deeply, and his hips bucked the tiniest bit, just enough to wake his friend.

“Oh.” said the man, his voice thick with sleep. Several moments later John heard the most interested sounding, “ _Well_.” he’d ever heard. Sherlock didn’t move and neither did John. He didn’t know what to do. Sherlock’s hand was still on his cock which was growing harder and longer every moment. John was beginning to panic. _He wasn’t prepared for this! He didn’t know how to react. He hadn’t gotten hard this quickly in years, morning erections were just a thing that happened_. Those same warm fingers traced the outline of John’s member through his pants, curiously exploring, shamelessly feeling the girth and length of it. It felt like only an instant before all the blood in his brain rushed south, he was fully hard now. “You did say _anything_.” muttered Sherlock suddenly and John found his pants being tugged down and gasped when he felt those fingers make direct contact. Sherlock nearly purred, “Oh _John_.”

John moaned shamelessly a moment later when a hot soft mouth suddenly covered him, the silky wetness and slight graze of teeth wringing yet another cry from his lips. _Sherlock was sucking him languidly as if he’d done so a thousand times before, savoring each inch of John’s cock as if it were the finest treat in the world!_ Suddenly the man shifted, not stopping what he was doing but somehow getting to his knees to kneel beside John to continue. John couldn’t believe what he was seeing, what he was feeling, but it felt so right. Sherlock’s face looked blissful, his full lips stretched into a beautiful O as they slid up and down John’s shaft. A desperate glance over the detective’s body showed John that the younger man was in a bit of a state himself, a long hard line in his pants barely concealing his own arousal. John reached out eagerly, then stopped himself, “Can I?”

Now Sherlock’s hips bucked a bit and he moaned his assent as his back seemed to arch reflexively. Licking his palm John reached over and smiled when Sherlock tugged away his own pants to expose himself. The doctor enjoyed the deep appreciative moan he could feel as he began to stroke. It felt odd to have an erection that wasn’t his in his hand, but a cock was a cock and John knew what he liked when he masturbated, so he did _that_ to his new lover, and grinned as Sherlock went wild. Much like the man himself Sherlock’s cock was long but _not_ narrow, in fact John had a bit of a time getting his fingers to meet but gamely he did his best. Both of them were soon writhing, hand and mouth working feverishly before long, both men panting and sighing as they grew closer and closer. It felt easy and natural, as if he were meant to be making love to his best friend like this. Suddenly Sherlock’s free hand was patting around blindly and John reached for it. Fingers tangled together tight and John’s eyes fluttered shut as he felt Sherlock moaning so deeply it was all vibration and no sound, John’s cock still buried as deep into the man’s mouth as it could get, so now John was the one almost grunting and shouting as he orgasmed just as Sherlock’s cock began to throb and pulse in his hand.

 _Sherlock swallowed._ John was dizzy with pleasure, hazy with satiation as the delightful feelings lingered and ebbed away slowly. “Come here.” he said muzzily, tugging Sherlock close. Without hesitation John pulled Sherlock’s face close and kissed him passionately, licking at those plush full lips still red and stained with semen. _Their first kiss_. “Amazing.” Pulling at narrow hips John got Sherlock astride him, keeping their mouths together as their bodies rutted together gently, both men sighing softly into each other’s mouth as the kiss went on and on, their cocks sliding languorously past the other to cause small but very pleasurable shocks, “That was so amazing, and a bit unexpected.”

“I should have asked.” said Sherlock ruefully when their mouths eventually parted and their hips stilled, “That was very presumptuous of me.”

“No, you were right. I did say _anything_.” countered John instantly. _He had. He would. He would do anything at all._ If Sherlock rolled him over right now and decided to take him, John would let him and Sherlock seemed to understand that because the purr John had heard earlier returned, and became possessive.

“You did indeed. I _don’t_ share though John Watson.” there was clear warning in Sherlock’s voice and John realized right then and there what they were about. He was already in with Sherlock as far as two people could get, all he had left was for Sherlock to accept his offer at full value, and no one else would ever be able to change John’s mind about the rightness of his choice.

“I said _anything_ and I said it only to you.” replied John calmly and enjoyed the peace that filled Sherlock’s eyes, “Whatever you want Sherlock, just let me know.”

“My very own _on demand_ doctor,” breathed the tall man with a wink. He bent his head and kissed each corner of John’s mouth gently, “Mummy will be beside herself with joy that I’ve landed a doctor.”

“ _And_ a soldier.” added John who found that being considered _landed_ was actually rather nice, especially when Sherlock ducked his head and sucked small kisses down John’s neck. It felt astonishingly good, he’d had no idea Sherlock’s mouth was talented at more than speaking, but now, _oh god yes_! “I’m a pretty good bodyguard too.”

“Indeed John, one of the best.” sighed Sherlock as he sat back up, “This is not a game for me, this is deadly serious. I’ve waited a _very_ long time for this. I’ve had to watch you with others for so long. I _will_ have anything _I_ want from you, just as you said, _but no one else will have you John Watson_.”

John looked up at Sherlock and saw the fear and insecurity in his eyes, and that was all it took to make him decide right then and there, “Then I’ll marry you and you won’t have to worry about it.” Sherlock stopped moving. He stared down at John, his face absolutely shocked but John remained tranquil. _This was the right choice, the only choice. It felt right. It felt like something that was meant to be._ Deep inside himself John felt serenity. _Who were they kidding? Obviously sex wasn’t going to be an issue, and both of them cared for the other like no one else in the world. If that wasn’t a reason to wed then nothing was_. John didn’t want to label it something like _true love,_ but Sherlock had said it himself, John needed to be in Sherlock’s life and Sherlock needed to be in John’s life _full stop_. _Why call it anything but what it was?_ John was absolutely certain of this, all he needed was an answer and even if it was no, he’d still stay with the detective to fulfill his vows. “Sherlock Holmes, will you honor my very humble proposal to attempt to be a good husband to you. I promise to be faithful and devoted for all of my days.”

Sherlock didn’t even blink. He simply stared at John’s face, his eyes wandering all over John’s features before settling on his eyes. A puzzled frown wrinkled his brow. “You’re serious.”

John nodded and understood the hesitation. Mere days ago their relationship had been toxic nearly unto death, and now John was suggesting exactly that, _till death do them part_ , only holding off the death portion of the promise hopefully as long as possible. _Being together_ was the only way either of them could possibly be happy, so getting married seemed like the logical choice. “Sherlock, will you marry me?” he asked again.

“Why?” Sherlock looked confused now. “Why would you burden yourself with marriage, especially to me?”

John sank back into the pillow and gazed up at the willowy man who sat so easily on him, “Being with you isn’t a burden, being _away_ from you was the burden! It destroyed us both, admit it.” Sherlock’s chin dropped and he seemed to be staring at his own fingers, his head ducking a tiny bit as he conceded the point. Their separation had ripple effects that had lasted years and had left scars on both of them that would never fade. “ _You_ don’t want me to be with anyone else, and _I_ don’t want to do anything that makes you miserable ever again. I’m serious Sherlock, very serious. I’ve asked, all I can do now is wait for you to decide your answer.”

Sherlock’s face went blank and his body stilled even more. He couldn’t be less readable if he were cloaked from head to toe in the most impenetrable of materials. Only the keenness of his gaze let John know that the tall man was considering things, his mind likely moving with complex speed through scenarios and variables before he was willing to speak. Patiently John waited. _He hadn’t been rejected outright and that was a good sign, but it didn’t really matter. They would wed or they wouldn’t, either way John had already committed himself to making Sherlock the happiest man alive, no matter what it took_. He was dead serious about remaining faithful to his lover, even if they never had sex of any description ever again. Sherlock would never need to worry about his place in John’s life ever again. He’d suffered so grievously already, John could not risk hurting Sherlock like that again. It would destroy both of them, he knew it. Several minutes went by before Sherlock sighed deeply and looked at John intently, “I accept your proposal John Watson, the answer is yes.”

John grinned. He felt good inside, light and a tiny bit less torn. This had been the right thing to do, he knew it right down to his bones. It felt like their lives were slipping back into place, that they were finally going in the right direction, that maybe now they could heal properly _together_ instead of continuously being torn to pieces because they were apart. John’s grin was answered and he had to ask, “Celebrate with a kiss?”

“Of course.” the purr was back and then John was being kissed breathless, both men stroking and caressing each other curiously, getting to know their intended better than they ever had before. Despite the circumstances there were some things that could not be ignored, “I need the loo.” reported Sherlock and John giggled. He did too but this time they just rolled out of bed and got on with their day, still taking turns but after they had relieved themselves face shaving and tooth brushing went on at the same time, and after a few fond kisses grown hot, a shower was enjoyed.

It wasn’t sexual, at least not at first. Sherlock and John were both curious to know each other in this new way and beneath the warm spray they explored each other in a way they’d never indulged in before. John kissed Sherlock’s scars as tenderly as Sherlock kissed his, both men seeking their fiancé’s mouth to reassure themselves that this was real, and this was something that was happening. “Let me get the rings.” asked Sherlock, “I’d like to.”

John’s smile went a little crooked and he wondered what kind of wedding bands someone with Sherlock’s connections could procure, “Alright.”

“Excellent.” apparently that answer deserved a soul-searing kiss that ended with Sherlock pressing John against the wall, rutting against his belly even as his hand stroked the soldier to orgasm. John was going to return the favor but Sherlock shook his head desperately, his pale cheeks stained brilliant red but his mouth falling open in a decadent moan. His hips canted hard, and John realized Sherlock was getting off on the feel of the podge on his middle, and John was the one flushing scarlet. He’d struggled so hard to get rid of that. “It feels amazing.” groaned Sherlock, his head falling forward, “So amazing. Like you. You’re amazing.” Another blistering kiss didn’t end until Sherlock was shaking in John’s arms, gasping out an orgasm so intense that the younger man couldn’t stand on his own.

John was breathless at the look in Sherlock’s eyes, the dreamy and utterly contented look of blissful relaxation. His eyes were brilliant, the colors more vibrant than ever, his lips swollen from use. John silently swore to keep Sherlock looking like that as often as he could manage, “You’re beautiful.” he said and watched as Sherlock’s blush returned, and was astonished at how unhappy the man looked. John was devastated to realize that Sherlock really believed the things people said about his looks, “ _I_ think you’re beautiful, just the most incredible person I’ve ever met, and it doesn’t matter for what characteristic. You’re like no other, beyond compare. I mean this Sherlock, no other person in the world is as incredible as you are.” John wasn’t lying. Now that they’d crossed that terrible abyss of despair there was no reason not to reach for as much joy as could be had. Sherlock deserved to hear the good things about himself and John would use all his meagre skills as a wordsmith to make him _finally_ believe. He had been a fool a thousand times over, and sweet words were the very least he could offer his lover.

Sherlock’s cheeks turned a charming shade of pink and he couldn’t look at John directly even as he mumbled, “Thank you John.” in a small but sincere voice. _Sherlock was shy!_

“I hope you don’t mind. I might be saying a lot of things like that now.” John was serious. As far as he was concerned his life had taken a radical shift back into the correct direction. _This was what he should have been to Sherlock right from the first day_. He liked the symbolism of their current positions, John wanted to be the one who supported Sherlock, the one who lifted him up, and made him understand how very rare and special he was. “Can I make you breakfast?” Sherlock was biting his lower lip now, looking for all the world like a youth, the blush high on his cheek and his eyes cutting away toward the window. John smiled, “Go on, I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

John found he didn’t mind Sherlock having a cigarette. They’d just promised something monumental and good days or not the man was still in a fragile state. Perhaps to outsiders it would seem John was rushing things but he knew he wasn’t. _This was what was meant to be, marrying Sherlock should have been something that John should have done years ago. So much strife could have been avoided if only he hadn’t been such a thick-headed and obtuse fool_. Shame filled him again and staunchly he funneled his attempts at reparation into making a lavish breakfast and tried not to focus on the many mistakes that he had made and the many choices that should have been different. _His suffering had been his own fault, and Sherlock had been the one to bear the burden alone._ Sherlock could finish his entire pack if he wanted, John needed to see him back to full health at the very least _. It was a small thing, and only one of the ways John wanted try in order to make amends_.

When John went to tap on Sherlock’s door he didn’t smell a trace of tobacco but the rich smell of his alternative choice hung lightly in the air. John’s brow furrowed a bit but he also shrugged his shoulders. It was always going to be the man’s choice how he dealt with stress, and John swore he wouldn’t chide him for it. “I just like the taste.” remarked Sherlock laconically, staring at the bricks on the building across the street. “I only had a little.”

“It’s fine,” reassured John earnestly because it was. Sherlock was doing his very best to recover and John had no right to try and make him feel guilty for how he did that, “Breakfast is on.” Sherlock nodded and surprised John by reaching for his hand, lacing their fingers together to lead him back to the kitchen. Deciding courtliness was the very least he could do to demonstrate his affection and dedication to his fiancé, John seated his lover and served him a generous portion of everything, “Not exactly a full English.” It was pretty close, if unintentional.

Sherlock examined his plate, “I’ll see what I can manage.” he said and began to eat. John fluttered around making tea for a minute more before seating himself. He noted that Sherlock had already made substantial inroads on his meal and smiled to himself. _Good, that was all good._ It was physically impossible to consume everything John had cooked but Sherlock gave it a go. John was impressed and a little concerned but Sherlock seemed happy, chattering once again as he helped clean up, and startling John by dropping little kisses onto the top of his head at random intervals, not disrupting his discourse at all, just little affectionate pecks that seasoned his words and John felt his heart grow warmer and warmer. _This all felt so right, this was what he’d been missing in his life, just being with someone who liked and understood him, someone who interested him and yes, even turned him on._ Now that John was affianced he felt free to admit that Sherlock’s arse was frankly obscene in its lush perfection, and that he’d always been more than a little curious about anal sex, not that he’d ever once dared to ask any of his previous lovers. Deciding some reciprocity was in order John caught Sherlock gently by the back of the neck and tugged him down for a series of small gentle kisses on his mouth. “John?”

“I like kissing you.” replied the soldier easily, and enjoyed the return of that happy blush. Sherlock turned his face away bashfully but John caught him up again and kissed him with greater firmness, “Scratch that, I _love_ kissing you.” and now John kissed Sherlock with every ounce of skill he possessed until the tall man was limp in his arms and sighing softly. “I’ll make a point of kissing you often, that is, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock’s voice was soft and shy again, “I don’t mind John, whenever you’d like.” John realized that Sherlock was simply starved for affection and resolved himself anew to give him anything he needed so he slipped his arm around that narrow waist and kissed him all over again until Sherlock needed to lean against the counter _and_ wind his arms around John’s shoulders to remain upright.

“Good, I like that.” This was their new way of being and John really didn’t mind. He preferred open affection anyway, he _wanted_ people to witness Sherlock being cherished and admired. He deserved that sort of recognition.  Again, it was a very small thing, and _nothing_ was enough to make up for all that John had caused Sherlock to go through.

Mrs. Hudson was obviously out because she didn’t witness John escorting Sherlock to the street after they dressed for the day, nor did she get to see how firmly the doctor had the detective’s hand in his. She didn’t see the pleased look on Sherlock’s face, or hear the bashful tone in his voice as he thanked John for unnecessarily helping him into the cab. That much could not be said for Mycroft. Sherlock sighed in resignation when a long black car slid up behind their cab just as they emerged onto the street, “Yes?” asked Sherlock with irritation.

“I see the doctor has managed to worm his way back in.” Mycroft looked forbidding, not exactly glaring at John, but exuding an icy distaste that made itself well known. “Congratulations brother, Mummy will be pleased.”

“That’s what I told John.” replied Sherlock sharply, “Don’t behave as if this weren’t exactly what you were hoping for, or did you expect me to go the Old Testament route _you_ prefer? I’m afraid I’m not very interested in that whole _eye for an eye business_. It seems like a lot of bother for nothing.”

“No no. I’m well pleased with the turn of events, in fact I expected no less of the noble doctor. I’m sure _the guilt_ will keep him ensnared for years.” and just like that Mycroft planted the seed of doubt, and John despaired when Sherlock stiffened beside him. “I can’t wait for Mummy to call me with the news, text me the date. I’d hate to miss my only brother’s nuptials.”

Sherlock was pale faced and shaking after Mycroft drove away, his hand loosening its grip on John’s, “That part is true enough isn’t it? You feel guilty, you’d let me do anything I wanted if it made you feel _less_ guilty.”

John was appalled. _The point hit painfully close to the truth, but it was far from spot on_ , “No, that’s not this at all. Sherlock!” The tall man looked gray. He was turning away but John caught his hand again, and held it firmly before speaking, his voice soft but urgent, “You became the most important person in the world to me the day we met. If I’d understood better, or been able to see clearer, our lives would have been very different. That can still happen even if I am horribly late about putting the facts together. You are the best person in the world for me to spend the rest of my days with, you’ve always been my best friend, and being _more_ than that is just so much that I didn’t expect to ever get, I don’t want to lose it. I want this. I want you.”

“Are you sure John?” Sherlock’s entire heart was in his eyes and the tall man couldn’t seem to help revealing how very vulnerable he was right then. John stepped close and offered himself up for a kiss. Sherlock hesitated only for a moment before claiming it, “I need to be _certain_.”

“You can be. You don’t need to worry. I’ll do anything you ask to prove it if you need me to, anything at all.” John wished he could do something more to make Sherlock feel secure about their new relationship. Perhaps they’d gone about it crazily, missing steps here and there but they’d gotten here despite all of the mess, and John wasn’t going to let that go for anything. “I’m yours Sherlock, the way I always have been, and now we’re going to go get some bloody rings, and you’re going to let me become your husband the way I should have been _years_ ago!”

The charming blush came back and the worry in Sherlock’s eyes was replaced with that soft defenseless expression again. “Very well John. Come along.” John’s smile was crooked again as Sherlock attempted to look dignified when he took his hand and led him down the street, except that the tall man was still flushed pink and he didn’t seem to realize that he was biting his lower lip.

Sherlock brought John to a small and well-packed shop where the owner opened all the cases and let the detective dig through display after display of rare and unusual rings. He got John’s finger sized, guessing beforehand and nodding sagely when his guess proved correct. He didn’t let John see what he’d chosen though, fussily making his betrothed stand near the door while the transaction was completed. “You’ll see them soon enough.” retorted Sherlock when John complained. “Patience John, we still need to get other things done.”

Briskly Sherlock swept them out of the shop and down the street where he hailed a cab. Hurrying John inside Sherlock did a quick search online, huffing and tutting before putting in an irate and complaint-filled call to his brother who ended up shouting at the younger man until both had degenerated into a hissing argument, “I don’t want to jump through all these hoops Mycroft! Don’t make me call Mummy.”

Sherlock’s bluff was instantly called, “I’m calling Mummy myself to tell her you’re getting married and haven’t informed her.” The call ended and suddenly Sherlock was furiously dialing in a number.

John snorted when he heard an elderly woman answer, “Both my boys at once, hold on a moment my dearest, Myc is on the other line.”

“No Mummy, it’s imperative that I speak first!” John made the cabbie pull over at Sherlock’s frantic gesture, paying the woman and following his lover to the street where Sherlock ducked into an alley and continued speaking, “It’s about John.”

“Oh, has that dreadful man left yet? Darling, come home, you’re doing so poorly.” John’s heart plummeted. _Mummy knew_.

“No Mummy, we worked everything out. That’s why Mycroft was calling you. John and I sorted everything out, we’re getting married. We’re out arranging it right now.” Sherlock sounded so happy, so proud, but even John could hear the silent dismay coming from the other end, “Mummy?”

There was a brief pause but then she said firmly, “I think you should come home my dearest. We need to speak you and I. Your…fiancé…is not currently welcome. I will expect you this evening.” Mummy ended the call, presumably to speak with Mycroft about the sudden change in her youngest son’s life.

John couldn’t look at Sherlock. _How could he? He’d wounded the man so terribly that friends and family everywhere could see the harm he’d done. How would he ever get past that? How could he ever make that up to Sherlock, or prove to all that he meant to do nothing but keep Sherlock happy in any way possible?_ “How long will it take for you to get to your mum’s?” he asked instead, examining the bricks in the wall in front of him.

Gentle fingers grasped his chin, turning his face up. Closing his eyes John accepted the very tender and lingering kiss that Sherlock gave him, “It only takes an hour _and_ you are coming with me. Mummy plans to sway me, and that I will not allow without having you present to defend yourself.”

“Oh.” John was going to have a stroke. He had to gain Sherlock’s mother’s good opinion and she already didn’t like him, and most certainly had no reason to. His heart tried to sink further, “I…don’t…um. She kind of hates me doesn’t she?” he finally said in a stunned voice. It was all sinking in again fully. He’d been awful to Sherlock, _horrible_. He’d made the already damaged young man even more so, and he hadn’t needed to lay a finger on him.

“If it makes you feel any better Mummy hates everyone. She offered to put a hit out on Lestrade once. I’m not entirely sure she was joking though she claimed she was. She’s fiercely protect of her children, as far as I can tell she’s the reason they’re still sneaking around together rather than openly declaring their relationship.” John was stunned. _Lestrade was in a relationship with Mycroft?_ His gorge rose. _Mycroft?_ Sherlock sounded commiserating, “I shouldn’t have sprung that on you like that, I’m sorry my dear.” The endearment and the hug were a surprise, and for some reason John couldn’t help a hysterical laugh from escaping but Sherlock just laughed with him, “I don’t understand it either John but from what I can tell my brother and the detective inspector have been more or less exclusive since Lestrade’s last divorce.”

John was rather enjoying the embrace. He was just tall enough to need to lay his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and secretly he liked that. Sherlock’s arms were long and he easily spanned John’s body with them, so in return John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s thin waist and raised his face for a kiss which was eagerly given. “Okay then, we’ll go together. I can manage this.”

“Of course you can John, you’re a soldier. Mummy will come around.” Sherlock seemed certain, “Mycroft tells me that no matter what we have to register our intent to wed ourselves, so off we go John.”

John grinned and simply followed where Sherlock led which was to another cab, and then to a government office which they left in an aggravated fury to return to Baker Street, both men nearly snarling as they rooted through papers and IDs until they had a great packet of items. Yet another cab was procured and two slightly grumpy residents of Baker Street filled in all the bureaucratic blanks required of them. By the time they were done it was late in the day. They barely had time to get back to their flat to change their clothes and catch yet another cab to the station where a train trundled them toward Mummy’s summer home, “She lives in a tiny cottage on the seaside where she can paint. She misses Papa a great deal, so she avoids living at the manor as much as possible.”

 _Great. Angry_ and _sad_. John sighed internally. _This was not going to be an easy battle to win._ Suddenly he groaned, “I should have brought her a gift!” Surely for someone in _his_ position a gift would be expected. “What do I do? She already despises me.”

“Nonsense John. She’s going to shout and say mean things to you but once it’s all out she’ll move on and everything will be fine. All you have to do is endure it until then.” Sherlock sounded confident again but there was a thread of worry in the man’s otherwise steady voice. “She’s very protective. If you understand that it will be easier.”

John stiffened his spine. _Being raked over the coals by his mother-in-law-to-be was small payment to make. He could do this no matter how her words would sting and he was positive they would_. Mycroft and Sherlock didn’t materialize out of nowhere and they could be _quite_ cutting. The doctor was fairly sure Mummy was going to get her pound of flesh before she was done with him. He sighed in resignation. _He deserved every single uncomfortable feeling he would experience; no one was lower than he was._ Swallowing hard John looked out the window while he fumbled for Sherlock’s hand. He was grateful that Sherlock hung on so tightly.

The village was quaint, and the walk wasn’t terribly onerous, a small garden path leading past a heavily flowered fence brought them to a heavy wooden door. A plump silver-haired woman opened it, a huge smile on her face as she looked up at her son, a smile that was almost instantly replaced with a scowl when she saw who was standing behind him, “Sherlock, please come in dear.” Mummy paused and without a hitch said, “Doctor Watson, you may be seated in the garden.” she pointed toward a set of chairs under a canopy out in the open. _John wasn’t even being allowed inside her house_. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Mummy raised a warning finger, “I said to come alone Sherlock and you defied me. I _will_ speak to you alone, and that _man_ can wait in the garden or go back to the station, I do not care which.”

Mummy wasn’t even looking at him and John sighed again, “It’s alright Sherlock. I’ll wait out here. She wants to speak to you, go on.” John turned and found his limp was troubling him again. Gritting his teeth, he made his way to the wrought iron furnishings and managed to seat himself with only a tiny loss of grace. Purposefully he’d chosen a seat that kept his back to the house. He didn’t want Mummy accusing him of spying or otherwise behaving dishonorably and schooled himself to patience. _He was a soldier. He could wait_.

The door closed after a minute and John heard raised voices immediately. Mummy was angry and Sherlock was getting there, clearly attempting not to lose his temper. John couldn’t make out words at all but as time went by the shouts became strident and quite heated. He wasn’t sure what to do. Somehow John had vaguely expected an almost poetic dressing down, not to listen to two presumably erudite people screech at each other like children. After nearly an hour John cracked under the pressure and called Mycroft, “They’ve been shouting for fifty-four minutes.” he reported blankly. “What do I do?”

“Do nothing. Mummy has been upset for some time and once again Sherlock is taking the penance for you.” disdain dripped from Mycroft’s every syllable, “Enjoy the view doctor, I’ve heard it’s very pleasant this time of year.”

John ended the call and got up. In a few quick steps he made it to the door and without knocking he pushed it open, “Stop, both of you stop.” Shocked silence ensued. He looked at Sherlock who was still wearing his Belstaff. His lover’s shoulders were both hunched and slumped. He was defensive and exhausted. “Sherlock you need to take your coat off and sit down. Mrs. Holmes, may I trouble you for some tea for Sherlock, and maybe something for him to eat? He’s unwell and this is really not helping. If you want to be angry at someone, be angry at me, and not him. He can’t physically handle this stress, not right now.” Extracting the thin young man from the heavy woolen item the doctor sat Sherlock in the chair closest to them, a kitchen chair pulled away from a heavy farm table. John was checking Sherlock over the entire time he spoke, deftly taking his pulse and peering into his eyes, anxiously noting the signs of strain written loudly all over the detective.

“He’s not well _thanks to you_.” retorted Mummy furiously, “Look at my son! _You_ did this to him.”

“Yes I did.” said John brokenly, “Yes I did _and_ I am _trying_ to make things better somehow. Please, he needs something to drink and a bit of time to calm down.” Sherlock’s heart was racing, and he was panting softly as if he’d run a very long distance, and couldn’t catch his breath. He needed a distraction. “Deep breath, Sherlock. Remember that time you watched Anderson fall out of his own trousers?”

Sherlock sniggered. That had been a banner day when a homicide in an unfinished building project caused a nail to miraculously snag the man’s waistband just as he tripped over a scrap of lumber. The fall forward had proved too much for the fabric of said trousers and Anderson had fallen face first right in front of Sherlock and John, the rip of the material the only sound for a long moment before both of them had burst into roars of laughter at the sight of his striped boxers. John had found a piece of discarded tarp that Anderson used to cover himself afterward, “That was the best day ever and the worst day to have forgotten our mobiles.” Lestrade had refused to take a picture but John wasn’t convinced that Donovan had the same self-restraint. “I’m alright John.”

John shook his head softly, “No, you really aren’t but you will be.” John would see to it no matter what. Another disdainful sniff announced Mummy’s return and the rich scent of tea filled the air as she set a cup down beside her son, and looked at him with chagrin and concern, “He just needs to sit for a bit.” Sherlock had no internal resources to draw upon. He was worn down even more than he had been when he’d returned from his great absence.  The impassioned exchange with his mother had sapped what energy he’d had and John was certain that a meal and a lie-down were in order. They might even need to spend the night and John was darkly certain that such a stay would be less than a treat.

“I need a cigarette.” said Sherlock bluntly and John nodded. Sherlock leaned forward and softly asked, “I’ll need a hand out.”

John said nothing again, simply helping his lover to his feet and escorting to the very same chair he’d sat in. He’d had the foresight to bring Sherlock’s coat with him, wrapping the tall man in it before helping him sit. John noted that his leg hadn’t troubled him at all, he’d remained rock steady while he’d been needed but now that he was returning to the house for Sherlock’s tea the limp manifested once again, “He needs his tea.” said John sharply when Mummy opened her mouth to begin, “I’ll be right back.”

Rudely he turned his back on her and brought the still steaming cup to Sherlock, “She’s very angry John. I should be with you.”

“No you should not. Let her say what she wants, and don’t think we’re not discussing what you two were shouting about, we are. I’m going back in there and as soon as she’s done we’re sorting out something so you can rest. Obviously she has no plans to feed us so I need to get you something.” John was concerned at how pale Sherlock remained. Removing his jacket, he spread it over those too thin legs, tucking the empty arms up around Sherlock’s waist to warm him further. With one last reassuring kiss John stood straight and marched himself back to Sherlock’s mother.

“He’s not well so whatever you want to say just say it.” John wasn’t in the mood for polite maneuvers. She was already angry with him, he really had nothing to lose, and he was worried for Sherlock. The sooner she got on with her shouting, the sooner they would be done and he could resume caring for the detective.

Mrs. Holmes clearly had been the one to give Sherlock his eyes. The coloring wasn’t the same but the shape of them were obvious. Right now the blue of them was like the coldest ice, deep and remorseless, “You have very nearly ended my son.”

“Yes.” replied John dully. _There was no arguing that_.

“He gave everything of himself and you ignored it!” she accused.

“Yes.” John could never deny that. _The entire Town knew what a cad he was_.

“This marriage is going to be a farce.” she hissed, “You do not have what it takes to be with someone like him.”

Now John scowled and stood firm, “You are incorrect Mrs. Holmes. _Not_ being married to Sherlock is what made this mess possible to begin with. I am doing what I should have done right after we met. There is no one in this world I am ever going to want to be with more than Sherlock! When he...” John had to swallow hard to continue but his eyes never lost contact with hers, “when he died right in front of me _I died too_. I’ve been pretending to be alive all this time, and it’s taken this massive cockup to bring me back to life. I lost Sherlock once already and it destroyed me so completely I couldn’t accept that he wasn’t actually gone. When he came back I was so shocked, so hurt, so completely _unbalanced_ I did not know how to be. I made all the worst choices, and because of that I nearly lost him for certain, and _I_ , Mrs. Holmes, I cannot allow that to happen. Think what you will of me for the rest of your days if that’s how you wish it. All the ill will in the universe will not keep me from Sherlock’s side. You will excuse me Mrs. Holmes. He needs seeing to.”

John turned on his heel and left her there. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. He should have let her say more but even now Sherlock was listing to the side. John hurried over and ignored Sherlock’s mother approaching slowly behind him, “I’m okay John. I just feel a little sleepy.” Sherlock’s eyes were hooded and droopy.

“Come inside my son, you can rest in the guest-room.” Stiffly Mummy managed to indicate that John should at least assist her son inside if not exactly as a guest, then at least as a doctor. With tender care John helped Sherlock up and got him inside. Thankfully the guest room was on the main floor so in only a few minutes John had Sherlock down to his pants and vest and tucked under a thick quilt, his head resting on a wide pillow. Sherlock refused to let go of John’s hand so the doctor knelt by the bed and let him hold it, Sherlock’s eyes fixed on John’s face until he drifted off entirely, that sweet innocent expression returning the minute the man was finally fully asleep.

Reluctantly John stood and faced Sherlock’s mother. She turned on her heel and led him back to the front room where she glared at him imperiously, “He needs to eat. He should have had food already.” There was faint accusation in his voice but also guilt because it was his fault that Sherlock was so wasted. “I need to get him something.”

“ _You_ , Doctor Watson, may return to Baker Street. _I_ am taking charge of my son’s convalescence and _you_ are most certainly not welcome in _my_ home.” she was glaring at him menacingly. “You will depart this instant.”

John was stunned, “I have to say goodbye to Sherlock then.” he moved toward the room but she intervened, “I can’t just disappear. That would crush him.”

“A feeling I’m sure he’s well acquainted with from you.” she spat. “Leave my house now because in ten seconds I will be calling the authorities.”

John cursed and left her house. Pulling out his mobile he sent Sherlock a text, “Your mother threw me out. I’m finding a hotel in town and getting takeaway. Will give you address as soon as I’ve checked in. xxoo”

John marched away, his back straight. It took ten minutes to get back into the village proper where he discovered exactly one place to rent a room and so he did, texting Sherlock the address and room number as well. Inquiring further led to the discovery of a small Thai restaurant that proudly offered takeaway as all their meals were cooked in their tiny kitchen, and they had no space to seat customers. Instead a small lawn was filled with camp chairs that were used by people waiting for their number to be called as one savory order after another was produced. John stood eagerly in line and ordered as much as he could carry. When it was all safely stowed on the small table, John went back out and found a grocer just as it was closing and purchased bottled water and several juices, and even though it made the teller blush, condoms and lube as well. He wasn’t saying no to anything, and it was just better to be prepared even if Sherlock didn’t make it back to the room that night.

John needn’t have worried. When he got back Sherlock was already sleeping on the bed, his soiled shoes telling John that he had cut right across the fields rather than staying on the paths to get to him. Feeling dismayed that his lover was now damp, but also a bit proud because of how impatient Sherlock had been to reunite, John stripped off Sherlock’s wet things, hung them in the loo to dry, and tucked himself into bed with the younger man to warm him. Sherlock was chilled but it didn’t take long before his stomach was rumbling enough to wake him, “Dinner is on.” said John tenderly, giving Sherlock a soft encouraging kiss. Deciding to say nothing of what happened until Sherlock was ready John simply said, “Up we get.”

The lady at the counter managed to locate some bathrobes for them so John wrapped Sherlock in one, turned up the heat in the room, and babied his lover unrepentantly. Sherlock was laughing and blushing before long as John pretended he was too ill to feed himself, ignoring Sherlock’s half-hearted protests that he could do it himself, and fed Sherlock one spoonful at a time until he couldn’t manage another bite. John doted on his fiancé shamelessly, tucking his lover right back into bed despite Sherlock’s protests, and turning the hotel telly toward the bed, giving Sherlock the remote, and climbing in with him, bare except for his pants. Sherlock’s complaints ceased as they indulged in some blatant cuddling, John tucked tightly into Sherlock’s long arms like a comfort toy, positioned so they were touching as much as possible yet still able to watch a movie. They fell asleep that way not long after. Both men slept deeply and with ease.

 

 


	4. Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mummy clearly aren't going to see eye-to-eye about Sherlock, but the detective has made his stance very clear.

John woke early in the morning to find the telly off, but Sherlock almost laying on him again, this time face down. John’s knee was at an awkward angle so he eased his leg to the side which only caused Sherlock to shift so he was laying directly on top of John, “Warm.” reported the detective blearily, “I love that.” Clearly he did. Sherlock snuggled down, there was no other description that would suit, and resumed sleeping almost immediately but John wasn’t quite so lucky. Sherlock was pressed against him exactly the right way and John began to grown hard. Sherlock kept sleeping for a few more minutes before John heard Sherlock sleepily say, “I rather enjoy having this effect on you.”

Sherlock was bold when he wanted something and without a word the tall man wiggled downward, managing to take John’s pants with him. “You don’t have to.” protested John weakly. Despite his words his body arched a bit, and his legs spread eagerly.

“ _Have to?_ I don’t recall asking John; I _want to_ so I am!” without pause Sherlock began. John was moaning softly in no time because Sherlock…rumbled. Whatever it was he was doing was causing a lot of vibration in the tongue region, and that same tongue was licking and lapping in the most amazing way, and _oh gods_ was that good! Sherlock then made a show of pulling off, slowly tasting the head, leaving it glistening and wet. Boldly he stroked John and looked directly at the soldier, his eyes hot and demanding, “If I asked to have this inside me _elsewhere_ , would you?”

 _Oh my gods, Sherlock wanted John to fuck him._ “Yes please.” said John weakly, the lust he was feeling almost too great to master for words to form. He was dizzy with all the changes, the abrupt about face in their relationship, but he was hungry for all of it. So far everything they’d done together had only been one amazing experience after another, all of it colored with a sense of urgency as they raced to catch up on years of delayed activities. If John had come to his senses immediately they might have been years into their proper relationship, their romantic time more drawn out and paced. Not now. _Now_ was urgent, they couldn’t go fast enough. “I would like that very much.”

Sherlock moved swiftly, straddling John’s hips and leaning down for a deep kiss. When it broke off Sherlock was eyeing John hungrily, “I have waited a very long time for you to fuck me John Watson. How much longer?”

John rolled them over easily, and flipped Sherlock onto his stomach, enjoying the soft pleased laugh he earned. Swiftly John went through everything he knew medically about the requirements for anal sex. He could manage this.  Rubbing himself hard between Sherlock’s ample cheeks John leaned forward to whisper a naughty promise into his ear. “As soon as I get you ready, I will happily fuck you for as long as you can bear it.”

John felt Sherlock grow limp beneath him, “Oh yes John, that’s what I want.” Sherlock’s hips rocked back and John moaned softly as his invitation was made even more blatant. “I don’t even know _what_ I want! I can’t seem to think clearly.”

John grinned because Sherlock did indeed look anxious, his long narrow body arching over and over again, his back lifting, or his arse being raised as he rutted against the sheet. No woman he’d ever been with had ever once made him feel an almost painful jolt of arousal simply from looking. He knew the feel of Sherlock already but he’d never be able to learn enough. Examining his lover swiftly he spread his fingers wide over the generous mounds in a gentle caress. He’d never done this for pleasurable reasons but he _was_ a doctor after all, and he understood very well what was involved. He brushed his hands over Sherlock’s behind for a moment, savoring the firm but tender feel of them before getting off the bed to fetch what they needed, “John!” said Sherlock with a shocked voice and an even brighter blush. The doctor had never seen the man so discomfited, “You did _not_ go to my mother’s local shop to purchase _sex aids_!”

“I did. I’m sure the girl at the counter has passed the news on already.” Small towns were notorious for moving news along quickly. A resident with a son who had a same-sex partner wasn’t exactly sensational, but it was unusual enough to take note of and mention. John didn’t care what people thought, “I actually thought these would be for you.”

“Oh John.” Sherlock’s eyes were soft and defenseless again. John put the lube on the table by the bed, and set the strip of condoms beside it, “You would have let me do that?”

“I still would, if that’s what you want.” John was pragmatic about it. If they were really in a long-term relationship, _and they bloody well better be_ , then it wasn’t fair that only one of them was the receiver. Both of them should at least give it a go to see what it was all about.

It was obvious that the young scientist was of the same opinion. _Penetrating_ or _being penetrated_ , both experiences would be new to the extraordinarily curious man, he’d want _all_ the facts. Sherlock looked so torn that John laughed, “You don’t have to choose just one or the other. We can do both.”

“Tonight?” asked Sherlock eagerly and John laughed again.

“I don’t think you’ve got two rounds in you tonight, but if you did then I would say yes. We’ll try one tonight and the other another time, is that alright?” John didn’t want Sherlock to feel rejected but he was still critically exhausted, sex of any description was going to take a lot out of him.

“Then I’d rather have you then.” said Sherlock with a high blush to his cheek, “I want that more.”

John laughed softly again, “That’s fine then, it’s all fine.” Both of them were only half-hard now, their discussion taking just long enough for both of them to calm down a bit. John opened the lube and got everything ready while Sherlock watched silently, “Do you know what to do?”

“I understand the theory.” offered Sherlock gingerly, “I’ve never actually been with anyone beyond oral sex.”

Sherlock being more or less a virgin didn’t surprise John. He’d never bought into the idea that someone like Sherlock could be completely clueless about sex, or he would never have tried it somehow, or to some degree, and being _alarmed_ by it was entirely laughable. The only thing that alarmed Sherlock was being compelled to be social when he wasn’t on a case, “Well you’re pretty amazing at that so I can see why a fellow wouldn’t get much further.” Sherlock grinned and John grinned back, “Give us a kiss then.”

Sherlock did. He rose from the bed with sinuous grace and caught John up in a searing kiss that left the soldier nearly clawing at Sherlock’s back, his cock stone hard, and his hips canting just a bit. Sherlock nibbled at his lips before kissing his way down John’s body, “I can’t wait to be inside you.” he sighed. He positioned John on all fours. The doctor was uncertain for a minute, not sure if Sherlock really understood what needed to happen but relaxed when he heard the lube bottle click open a few moments before he felt the slightly cool gel being carefully applied, “I’ll be gentle.” promised Sherlock breathlessly and he was.

The greatest of care was used to tease John into a state of readiness, the careful press and then entry of Sherlock fingers accompanied by muttered words of amazement and delight from both of them. John should have felt odd to be kneeling there but it wasn’t because it was _Sherlock_. It was strangely comfortable to listen to his lover nearly chatter about what he was doing. The scientist was very candid about what he was observing, and John got to hear a detailed description of his body, how it opened for his lover, how it felt, how well John was doing for his first time, and how the lube felt so different from saliva. Sherlock was almost purring again, he already marvelous voice dropping in register as his own arousal grew, his eagerness and enjoyment making John relax and accept him so much faster. It was very different being the receiver during lovemaking, but it felt right to John. _He couldn’t give enough to Sherlock, and if being taken was part of who they were now then that was perfect_. It was sensual and intense, but not overwhelming. John was surprised at how little time it took before Sherlock tentatively decided that John was fairly ready. “You will tell me if this feels unpleasant. I have no wish to make this a negative experience for you.” Sherlock was firm.

“I promise Sherlock, said John, looking up at his lover seriously, “I’ll tell you if it doesn’t feel right.” He honestly felt well and truly prepared. Sherlock’s fingers were rather large and he’d been using three of them before he’d stopped, and even now he caressed John, checking him once more, those long hard fingers sinking inward with ease. Sherlock relaxed, “Please though, the wait is killing me.”

Sherlock chuckled again because John’s hips were rocking back and forth in anticipation. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss to John’s coccyx before positioning himself, “ _Two for one_ virginity.” he teased and John huffed out a laugh. It was perfect, both of them had a long history of laughing at inappropriate things, and the pair of them giggling over their first penetrative experience was just like them.

Sherlock smacked John’s behind, “Hey, gentle now!” John was giggling. He didn’t know what he expected from his first time with Sherlock but teasing and goofing around with each other hadn’t crossed his mind. Sherlock leaned forward again and kissed the reddened flesh, “Better.”

Now John felt Sherlock’s cock pushing against him. He felt his loosened hole stretch even wider, the head of Sherlock’s thick member making demands of him that he wasn’t now sure he was entirely ready for, “Relax John, you’re tensing up. I don’t want to hurt you.”

John laughed again and tried to relax, “It’s just new. It’s okay love, go on.” He felt Sherlock’s fingers return instead, cleverly reaching exactly the right way inside him and stroking delicately over a very special spot deep within the doctor’s body, “Fucking hell Sherlock!” John felt his body almost melt with lust now. That had felt…amazing. Sherlock did it again, his long hard fingers pumping slowly in and out until John was rearing back and almost driving himself onto Sherlock’s fingers, “Yes…that’s so good, please love, I’m ready. I’m really ready now, gods please!”

Sherlock took him slowly, only the fingers digging into John’s hips betraying his nervousness as he rocked himself inward, the blunt head of his cock the worst of it. The stretch was uncomfortable at first, very uncomfortable, but it didn’t take long before the tingling zings of sensation faded. Knees braced wide, John gripped the sheets hard with his hands, breathing carefully as Sherlock entered him bit by bit. He knew his cock had softened considerably, the enjoyment he was experiencing severely dampened as he allowed his lover inside him. “It’s okay John, you’re doing so well.” Sherlock was soothing him, now rubbing his hand in small circles over John’s lower back, his sides, and even the cheeks of his arse, “You feel amazing John, I can barely describe it. You’re holding me so tightly, you’re so hot inside, we’ve made you so wet.” Sherlock’s words were like magic, all tensions melting away as he spoke. John had never heard Sherlock’s voice so thick with desire, so astonished, so amazed.

John couldn’t stay on his knees. Almost gracefully his legs spread wider until his body was flat on the bed, Sherlock kneeling with his thighs spread nearly as wide as John’s, his hips beginning to roll inward as he began to fuck John carefully. The taller man shifted his inward angle a bit at a time, driving deeper and with deliberation, riding deeper and deeper until their bodies were pressed tight together, “I’m _in_ you John. I’m all the way inside of you. We’re as together as we can possibly be.” Sherlock sounded reverent and John felt almost high now. His head was spinning and he realized that his erection had returned in full form, his cock heavy and rigid again. It was trapped between the sheet and his belly, and as Sherlock began to press and thrust, it rubbed along with John’s body and felt amazing too.

John couldn’t talk. His ability to formulate words seems to be eclipsed by the level of his arousal which was substantial. In all his life he’d never desired another man, never considered having a male lover, that is, until he met Sherlock. Now it seemed the most natural thing in the world, and for a searing moment John regretted all the women he’d been with, and all the orgasms he’d shared with them because they had not been Sherlock. Now his lover was biting along his shoulders, nuzzling the back of his head, sweating on him, and it was glorious. Sherlock’s movements were unsophisticated, instinctual, and just perfect. Each plunge and thrust felt better than the last, and John realized his fingers were knotted into the sheets so tightly he worried vaguely that he would tear them.

Time became irrelevant and everything became blurred. Sherlock moved him a bit from time to time, rubbing an appreciative hand along John’s body, clutching at his hips every once in a while, kissing him a great deal, and moaning louder and louder. Their bodies moved together with increased vigor until the hotel bed was rocking enough to thump against the wall but John didn’t care who could hear them, or who would know what they were doing. All of it felt amazing, so amazing, and with a huge amount of surprise John realized he was on the verge of orgasm. The pressure of their two bodies pressing downward against the sheet was almost chaffing him, but at the same time the rub and burn was delicious. Sherlock was almost whimpering now, and the sounds he was making were as arousing as the sensations he was experiencing. He managed to choke out a single word, “Sherlock.”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice was deep, rumbling, almost alien sounding. “John I’m _coming_.” His words were a soft roar. They splintered through John’s reality, taking him apart, triggering his orgasm. His back arched upward, and a hoarse cry rose and fell with each surge he experienced. He felt each throb of Sherlock’s cock, understood that he was now filled with Sherlock’s essence, knew how he was bound to his very best friend in ways that didn’t need to be tangible. He was _Sherlock’s_ , forever, and nothing would ever change that. Nothing.

They drifted together for a long time but eventually Sherlock removed himself and curled up beside John, his long arms holding him tight. John felt warm and languid, content right down to his soul. Maybe he’d feel the results of their exertions later on, but for now he was flying high on endorphins and it was exhilarating. After a time though John really needed to get up, the call of nature was urgent, and almost desperately overdue. Sherlock seemed almost connected to John now, reading his physical cues even more effortlessly than he’d ever done, “Off you go John.” Another kiss to the back of his neck and a gentle push helped John off the bed and tottering toward the bathroom.

Some time later, much relieved, John emerged to see that Sherlock had fallen asleep curled around John’s sweat soaked pillow. He looked so young, his face unlined and filled with that strange innocence that the scientist never seemed to lose. John felt his heart swell, and silently he re-committed himself to his lover, swearing to spend his entire life devoted to Sherlock. He called room service and ordered a late breakfast, and when he hung up he saw that Sherlock’s eyes were opened. “Hey there.” John smiled back at the shy face that peeked up at him, Sherlock’s face slightly flushed and uncertain looking, “Do you want to take a shower?”

“Yes John. I’m a bit…sticky.” John helped him out of bed with a laugh, and laughed again when Sherlock tugged him into the small cubicle with him, both men smiling happily as they washed up swiftly. Sherlock was cheerful and grinning, not talking much but washing himself briskly in between brief kisses, and John thought that the man was simply glowing. It made him feel amazing, and he hoped he could keep Sherlock feeling like this forever.

Breakfast arrived just as they finished dressing and John watched as Sherlock ate his plate clean. “Do you want to head home now?”

“Yes, before my mother comes. She’ll know we haven’t left town, I’m sure she’s received phone calls from more than one person. She has a lot of close friends in this community.” John really didn’t feel like having an emotional show-down with Mummy. He was entirely certain that she would have some very hard and probably devastating things to say to him, and he would listen to whatever she had to dish out, but not yet. At some point in the near future John would deliver himself up for the verbal flagellation that he had more than earned, but before that he needed to help Sherlock heal.

After they checked out John walked with Sherlock to the train station where they purchased tickets. The ride home seemed to pass by in a flash, both of them pouring over articles in the paper, teasing each other about possible cases, and generally enjoying each other’s company they way they always had. Once they pulled into their station John checked his mobile, “Text from the clinic. I have to go sign some paperwork for my time off.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, “You shouldn’t give up your work just for me John. It isn’t right.”

John shushed him immediately. “What wasn’t right was me not paying attention to you the way you deserved. I might go back to work eventually, but not right now. You need me more. There are plenty of doctors out there, but only one Sherlock Holmes and he’s mine to care for, so that’s what I’m going to do.” Sherlock blushed a little bit but didn’t say anything.

Hand in hand they caught a cab to the clinic. John winked as he left Sherlock in the waiting room to go find the file containing his papers. HR had everything ready and it took less than five minutes to go through it all, carefully penning his name in all the appropriate locations! “Doctor Watson!”

It was Diane, a nurse who had joined their clinic only a few weeks ago. She was curvaceous, ginger-haired, and had big green eyes. John had flirted with her off and on, but that was over with now as far as he was concerned. They’d never even gone on a date, though he’d meant to ask her, the same as he’d asked dozens of different women out in the hopes of a one-off, or maybe even the occasional second date. “Hi there Diane, just heading back out again.”

“Aw, we’ve missed you.” She smiled and came right up to him, “Well...some of us missed you more.” Suddenly John was aware of how close she was standing, and he stepped back. Sherlock was only a few feet away, the waiting room was just on the other side of the receptionist’s window. Diane’s eyes gleamed almost proprietorially, “I’d like to think we were missed in return.” John didn’t move away fast enough when Diane stepped up quickly and pressed her lips to his, “I get off at seven, would you like to go out for a drink?”

“Diane, stop! I’m involved with someone.” John pushed her away, “I’m sorry, but no thanks. He’s waiting for me.”

Diane’s smile dropped away. _“Him?”_ Her face lost its cheeriness and became angry, “You’re _gay_ and you were leading me on? What kind of sick fuck does that?”

“Listen Diane, I don’t know what you thought of me before this but it’s irrelevant. I’m with someone now, and _this_ is very inappropriate behavior for a working environment. Even if I had been single…”

“Nurse Collins!” Sarah Sawyer was standing in the doorway, “This is the second time today I’ve witnessed you kissing one of our doctors! Matthew clearly didn’t mind but John obviously does! If you were a male nurse going about kissing female doctors the outcry for sexual harassment would be deafening!”

“Doctor Sawyer!” Diane was flustered now then rallied her anger as a defense, “He’s gay! He says he’s with someone now! Just last week he was giving me the eye!”

Sarah’s face hardened, “Nurse Collins. You will report yourself to Human Resources immediately. Clearly you need a discussion about how to conduct yourself _professionally_. I’ve known Doctor Watson for a very long time, years in fact, and I know very well what sort of person he is. It is not his job to see that you conduct yourself appropriately, and if he _had_ been flirting with you, then that was then and this is now! He has clearly stated that he is with someone, that should be all he needs to say, and _who_ that someone is is none of your concern!” Sarah looked fierce now, “Off you go. If you transgress one more time you and I will revisit this conversation in detail.”

With a dark angry flush on her cheek the nurse left the room, “Thanks Sarah.”

“It’s Sherlock isn’t it? You’ve finally pulled your head out of your arse and sorted things?” Sarah looked pleased and upset at the same time, “John.”

John was nodding and smiling but the way she said his name gave him pause, “Yeah?”

“John…Sherlock saw it. The kiss. I saw it too, there was no way he could have missed it. He bumped into me on his way out of the clinic. I….he didn’t look very good.” Sarah looked very concerned, “John…I know things haven’t been right between the two of you for a long time. If you’ve only just patched things up, this is going to be very bad. You should go, you need to explain what happened. I’ll back whatever you say, just let me know and I’ll talk to Sherlock.”

 _John was going to be ill!_ “Did you see which way he went?” Sarah shook her head and John took off running. Sherlock was nowhere in sight. He yanked his mobile out of his pocket and sent a text. He got a message back “message undeliverable” and John groaned. _Sherlock had blocked him already!_ He was probably very hurt, and feeling all sorts of awful things! He’d be convinced he’d been betrayed and John cursed himself for not taking Sherlock right into the office with him. There was only one thing left to do.

Cursing again John stabbed another number into his mobile. After several rings a cool voice answered, “Doctor Watson. How pleasant to hear from you.”

“Mycroft. Sherlock’s run off. He saw something that looked very bad and but it wasn’t what it seemed, and he’s gone! He’s blocked my number.” John knew he sounded panicked and scared but he didn’t care. There was no one who was nosier than Mycroft Holmes, if anyone could track Sherlock it would be him.

“Gone? What do you mean _run off_?” Mycroft’s voice was now sharp and cold, “What have you done this time, Doctor Watson?”

John was babbling, “We made up, don’t pretend you don’t know that. We went to see your mum last night, and then we stayed at a hotel. We got back just a little while ago and I had to stop by my clinic. A nurse came up and kissed me more or less in front of Sherlock and he…he must…he must be thinking the most awful things Mycroft! It’s not true, whatever he’s thinking. I have to find him. I have to find him right away! He’s still not well. He’s been unwell for far too long to have recuperated enough. He had it out with your mother last night and it nearly did him in. Another huge shock like this is bad Mycroft, it’s very bad! You have to help me Mycroft.” John’s voice was becoming shrill.

“Calm yourself doctor.” There was silence for a minute while John paced up and down the pavements. “CCTV shows him heading east of your location. He knows that I can track him this way which probably explains why he entered the parking garage of a hotel. He can access underground walkways from there, there are service tunnels all throughout London. There are no cameras down there either.”

John wanted to scream. “Text him! Tell him what happened! She just came up and _kissed me_ , I didn’t ask for it. Tell him to talk to Sarah Sawyer, she knows what happened to. Let her explain if he won’t listen to me. Mycroft, help me!”

There was another moment of silence. “He’s blocked me. He’s also removed the GPS from his mobile. I can’t use it to track him.” John felt despair beginning to build. “I’ll get my people looking in his usual spots, and his not-so-usual spots.”

“I’m calling Greg. Maybe he has some ideas.” John didn’t think so. No one knew Sherlock better than Mycroft or himself. Greg was the next closest, along with Mrs. Hudson and Molly, but even they very seldom had any idea where Sherlock would take himself. John ended his conversation with Mycroft and began making calls. Lestrade was unimpressed and unwilling to put people on it but he offered up the addresses of various drug dens where Sherlock had been known to frequent back in his drug-using days.

 John rushed back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway and she was frowning at him. “What’s going on Doctor Watson?”

John flinched as she used his formal name but answered, “Sherlock is angry with me again but I swear it wasn’t my fault! Now he’s disappeared, he’s blocked my number, and Mycroft’s number, and I think he’s done a runner.”

He moved to enter the building but Mrs. Hudson stopped him, “Doctor Watson, this is…I can’t…” she pursed her lips, “When did you see him last?”

She wasn’t letting him in! “At the clinic about an hour ago.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned at him. “Sherlock sent me a message saying he’d be out of town for an indefinite period of time. He didn’t say where nor has he returned home.”

“Text him back! Tell him he didn’t see what he thought he saw…” Mrs. Hudson turned her back and shut the door on his face, and John’s heart sank. “Mrs. Hudson.” John was filled with anxiety and despair. _She wasn’t going to help him_. Despite that he unlocked the door and rushed up to their flat and searched around wildly. Sherlock was very flexible but he wasn’t hiding in the cupboards or his wardrobe, or under the beds, and was very definitely not at 221 B Baker Street. John wanted to cry.

He had to find him! Rushing through their things John crammed some clean clothes for both of them into a haversack, grabbed his bath-kit, his portable med-kit, and raced down the stairs back to the street. Looking everywhere he searched for any sort of trace of Sherlock before forcing himself to calm down. He needed to be methodical. He couldn’t just run around London hoping he’d find Sherlock who was difficult to locate even when you knew where he was supposed to be. John pulled out his mobile. “Molly. Sherlock is hiding. Have you seen him?”

“What?” Molly sounded confused, “Hiding? Why? John, what’s going on? He’s not here. He has a key to my flat. He’s stayed there before.” He had? Molly gave him the address, “Don’t let Toby out, he’s been a bit ill lately.”

 _Toby? Oh yes. Molly’s cat._ “Thanks Molly, I’m heading there now.” It took another half hour but soon he was at her flat. Molly had called the building manager who let John in but there was no Sherlock anywhere in her small rooms. Toby didn’t move the entire time John was there, peeling a single eye open long enough to acknowledge his presence before ignoring the human again. John refilled his water bowl and called Molly back, “He’s not here. I don’t know where to look next.”

“Can I help John?” Molly’s voice was tremulous.

“Try calling him, or texting him, he’s blocked me.” John should have felt ashamed to tell her this but he was too agitated to care how it sounded, “Please Molly, I need to find him.”

“I’ll call you right back.” Molly sounded like she was trying to be comforting so he ended the call and began to walk down the street, his eyes darting everywhere. Every step he took was filled with recollections of things he’d said and done with Sherlock on so many other streets, the jokes they’d laughed at, the cases they discussed, and for too long a time, the icy silence that had been between them.  His mobile rang only five minutes later. “Er…John?”

“You talked to him? What did he say?” John listened eagerly.

“Oh…well… _yes_ I spoke to him but…” Molly stopped speaking and when she started her voice was cool, “He’s not interested in speaking to you right now John Watson.” And to his surprise she hissed, “For shame John! _For shame_. I’d thought better of you. Don’t call me again.” Molly disconnected the call, leaving John staring at his mobile in astonishment _. Molly Hooper actually sounded…angry! What had Sherlock said to her?_

John checked the list Mycroft had given him. It was going to take forever to go to all these places and there was no guarantee that Sherlock would even be there by the time John located these addresses, even if he was staying there. Too desperate to care John flagged down a cab and began. First he checked Sherlock’s normal thinking spots. He had a few that John was aware of but all of them were cold, empty, and clearly detective-free. On his way to the third he called Mrs. Hudson, “I’ve still not located him.”

“I’m not surprised.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice was beyond cool now and well into frosty, “Doctor Watson, it is with a great deal of regret that I must ask you to vacate Baker Street as soon as possible. Today if you can manage.”

John stopped moving. _Mrs. Hudson was throwing him out._ “Wh…what? Mrs. Hudson, I have to find Sherlock, I don’t have time to…”

“Doctor Watson, I am giving you twelve hours to pack your personal possessions and quit residing within my home. You will find that the lease you signed with me allows for this, there is no legal way out. You _will_ leave my home as soon as possible. Good day sir.”

 _Sir? She’d referred to him as sir_ and _she threw him out?_ John despaired even more. How had everything gone so very wrong? He didn’t have time to argue. He had to find Sherlock, “Mrs. Hudson…” the line was dead. She’d ended the call. John punched in the number for the clinic, “Sarah, Mrs. Hudson has asked me to leave Baker Street. I’m still looking…I have to find...Sarah, _what do I do_?”

“Oh dear! Oh _John!_ Um…well, let’s see. If you have to leave your home then, well, I’m leaving for that Paris conference. I’ll be gone a week. Bring your things to mine and use it as a base for now. We’ll sort things out further when I get back unless you’ve found Sherlock by then.” Sarah sounded firm and confident, “You’ll find him John. You both always find one another; you can hardly help it.”

“Thanks Sarah. I don’t know how I’ll repay you.” John was manfully trying to keep himself together but he was so anxious, so completely lost, so turned around, he just didn’t know where to begin.

“Find Sherlock, John that’s all you need to do. Go on. Get your things and get back to looking. I’ll be home tonight. You can sleep on the sofa again.” Sarah was a good friend. After their short-lived romance she’d kept John at a professional distance but their regular interactions had gradually become a proper friendship. She’d dated various others off and on since then, but much like John, had devoted herself to work more than to romance.

John took a taxi back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in sight so John went directly to their flat. She’d left a small stack of cardboard boxes in the kitchen, a very serious reminder of his lack of welcome. Tears burned hot in his eyes as John trudged upstairs. He still didn’t own much. He packed his few clothes, and his books, the last of his things in the bathroom, and a few items from the kitchen. When he was done he hauled everything down to the foyer and called a taxi. There was a bowl on the table where Mrs. Hudson normally left their mail and with a great deal of sorrow John dropped his keys into it. “Goodbye.” he whispered to no one. The taxi was there and it took a very short amount of time to be loaded up and gone from what had been his home.

Once again a building manager appeared, this time handing John a key, “Doctor Sawyer said you’d be flat-sitting for her, return this key when she comes back.” The woman eyed John suspiciously but loaned him a trolley to haul his things to the elevator and up the five flights to Sarah’s. John stuffed everything into a corner and called Mycroft.

“I’ve not found anything yet Doctor Watson.” Mycroft sounded annoyed, “He’s being particularly clever this time.”

The now familiar feel of despair welled up, “Where else can you suggest?”

Mycroft sighed, “You know Sherlock as well as I, and it pains me to say this, but possibly even better. His habits and ways are sly and full of tricks. If he does not want to be found, it will be nearly impossible to find him, even if he stays within the confines of London. Who knows where he might bolt if he left the city.”

John nodded and then replied, “I understand. I’ll be staying at Sarah Sawyer's for a bit. Mrs. Hudson asked me to le…that is to say, I'm not...she won't...I had to...” he couldn’t say it.

“Ah.” Mycroft managed to infuse actual sympathy in that one small sound, “Very well Doctor. If I cannot reach you through your mobile, one of my people will contact you there.”

“Thanks Mycroft.” John ended the call and wondered for a minute if he was going to be ill. Sherlock had run away from him and had gone underground. John had lost his lover and his home all in one day. Mycroft was no help though at least he had tried. He felt lost and empty and the worry he had for Sherlock’s mental and physical condition was growing. Now John closed his eyes and breathed deep for a minute. “Okay.” He said decisively. “Running about all crazy isn’t helping. I have to take this methodically.”

John dug through his meager possessions and found a guide-book for London. In the maps section he carefully marked all the placed he’d tried. He found a blank note-book and carefully wrote out a short series of notes, folding each one tightly and putting them in his pocket. He made sure his new area was tidy and left the flat. Hailing a taxi he gave the address for Leister Gardens, where Sherlock had a sliver-wide property he never used. Sherlock had taught him to pick locks, and had given him a kit. It was ironic that John was using it now to break into Sherlock’s place. It was empty, mouldy, and the dust hadn’t been disturbed in ages. John lay a small note on the one table present in the narrow room. On the front was one a single word “Sherlock”. If it took the rest of his life, John would find Sherlock Holmes. He’d personally check each and every place he could think of, that Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, anyone could think of. He’d even try to speak to Mrs. Hudson again, if she deigned to receive him, but one way or another, John would make this right. Squaring his shoulders, John quit the building, locking the door on his way out. One down, infinity to go.


	5. Parturition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A terrible misunderstanding has parted the love-birds just as their romance was beginning to flower.

It had been four days.

John walked along the pavements, silent and expressionless. _He had to pace himself_. The list of places he needed to see was considerable, and because of how Sherlock chose his hideouts, none of them were in easy to access locations. John had done more walking in the last four days than he’d done in ages. His eyes burned with exhaustion but he couldn’t take the time to rest. _There were so many places left to check_.

His mobile beeped an alarm. John shut it off, reached into a different pocket and pulled out a meal replacement bar which he ate, his jaw chewing automatically, doing its duty, and that’s all John was capable of right now. _He couldn’t rest, he needed to find Sherlock_. He reset the alarm for three hours. He needed to keep to a schedule to make sure he lasted for as long as possible. _John couldn’t afford time to sit down and eat, he needed to keep searching for his lover_.

John worried absently that his ribs might be broken or close to, and also, that his heart might be developing arrhythmia. It seemed to be beating erratically all the time now, but he wasn’t going to stop searching to go have it checked out. More likely it was the worry and stress of not knowing what Sherlock was up to, or where he’d gone to, all the anxiety John couldn’t stop…that was making his heart beat out of turn. _He had to pace himself_. John had stopped the caffeinated drinks when they began to make him jittery rather than awake, and resorted to a huge amount of water, and fruit juices. He’d stopped at a store to purchase an entire container of the bars he was living on, because he needed to use every minute possible to make his way through London. He’d gone back to Sarah’s only twice, fitfully sleeping a few hours each time, the fear-driven nightmares making rest impossible. When he gave up John would just wash up, re-dress, and resume his search.

John adjusted the bag on his back. He still had everything he’d packed for his original search. Mrs. Hudson probably didn’t realize that John still had some of Sherlock’s spare socks and pants, or his second favorite pyjamas, or trousers and one of his many white button-down shirts. All of it was _just-in-case_. John wasn’t going to judge Sherlock, no matter where he found him. If he was in one of the drug dens then John would help him out, and help him clean up. One horrifying scenario after another played through his mind about how Sherlock was living right now, what ways he was using to escape his misery, and what dangers he was exposing himself to.

John’s fists clenched over and over again. He was unable to pass any alley or street crossing without peering around, desperately searching for anyone who looked even a hint like Sherlock. A twinge in his side made him rub the tape now around his ribs, poking one of the many bruises that were healing. He’d gotten into more than one scrap with dealers and their hired help during his search. It seemed they didn’t like being shouted at by a small angry ex-army doctor, and once they heard who he was searching for they often got quite agitated, and on more than one occasion, violent. “Keep walking doctor.” They’d warned him again and again, chasing him off from one place after another. None of them had seen Sherlock nor wanted to. Mycroft was not someone they wanted to antagonize again, and enabling Sherlock’s past escapades had borne lessons that still smarted. John kept walking.

He'd left dozens of notes all over London, all tucked into discrete locations that only Sherlock would know about. He talked to any homeless person he came across, describing Sherlock, sometimes meeting someone who recognized him, but not a single soul that had seen him personally. A long black car slid up beside him and John stopped trudging along. He stopped with a sigh and waited. It was Mycroft, “Get in Doctor Watson. We have located him.”

John didn’t hesitate now. He climbed right in and leaned forward anxiously, as if he could will the vehicle to move faster, “Where is he?”

John got to witness Mycroft looking upset, frustrated, and concerned all at the same time. “He left London. He’s been hiding on one of Mummy’s more rural properties.” _One of her properties?_ _How many places did the Holmes own? It seemed that half the country belonged to someone in their family._ “John, he’s been alone all this time.”

John had thought his own personal stress level could not have been elevated more, but now it soared. _Sherlock got himself into all sorts of trouble when someone was with him. What could he do in a fit of despair when he was entirely alone and unmonitored? Was he even still alive?_ John’s heart was going to beat out of his chest with worry. _He needed to get to Sherlock, instantly!_ “Where?”

“I’m arranging a vehicle for you. I don’t imagine you want company.” _No John did not_. He was going to go find Sherlock, fix this mess, and get them home where they belonged. _Together_. He clutched his bag, he had everything he needed in it, he wouldn’t even need to bother Sarah by returning to her flat. She’d be home tomorrow anyway. “I’m not going to pretend that anyone else can help Sherlock right now. This is a situation that only you can fix, we both know it. I may not like or even approve of your relationship but I am at least cognizant of depth of my brother’s need for you.”

John needed Sherlock just as much. How could they thrive apart? They couldn’t, that was obvious. Both of them spun wildly out of control without the other to revolve around. “How did you find him?”

“You can thank Gregory.” _Gregory? Oh, Lestrade_ , “He has a contact who called in a complaint about a Londoner who kept attempting to force his assistance on them.” John chuckled blackly. _That sounded like Sherlock_ , “Mummy’s winter artist’s retreat is near there, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine he would make use of it. It’s empty most of the year, no one would normally know he was there.”

“How long till I get there?” Mycroft produced a map and spent the rest of their short journey explaining to John how to locate the property. The network of country towns and hamlets was dizzying but he committed as much information he could to memory, took the map and thanked Mycroft yet again. “If I’m careful I could be there tonight.”

Mycroft looked him over briefly, “You are over-tired already but I don’t imagine asking that you rest beforehand is going to do anyone any good. You wouldn’t rest and you would end up merely wasting the time it takes to get to my brother. Safe travels, Doctor Watson.”

They pulled up and John got out. Anthea was standing beside a dark blue Citroen, “You’re kidding me.”

“You’ll blend in.” answered Mycroft mildly, “Get going Doctor Watson, and drive safe.”

It had been years since John had driven a vehicle. He hadn’t been particularly good at it either, and he was so very tired now but oddly that forced him to pay attention to what he was doing. Cautiously he made his way through the treacle slow traffic of London, trying to keep his temper as delay after delay slowed him repeatedly, and he needed to remind himself often that this was the fastest way to get to Sherlock that didn’t require a bus, a train, and possibly some kind of pack animal.

He stopped to refuel after a couple of hours, using the facilities before washing his face in cold water and purchasing some sugary drinks and a large sandwich. He managed to eat as he drove, the sugar in the drinks giving him a temporary boost of energy to get where he was going. It took several hours more of making his way through the English countryside before he finally made it to the outskirts of the small hamlet he’d been aiming for, and another half hour to locate the signs that directed him to the out-of-the-way property he’d been sent to.

The house was large. It was a simple farmhouse, clearly refurbished, yet still ancient looking. The shingles on the roof looked hand-hewn, and the fence was a simple affair but covered with heavily flowered vines. The lawn was unkempt, and here and there John could see small gardens that had been left to grow over, or thrive as they would. It gave the place an unlived in look. Despite that John parked the car, hefted his bag, and knocked on the door briskly.

It took several minutes of pounding on the door before John finally heard someone tottering toward it. Their gait was hesitant, and John wondered for a minute if he’d gotten an inebriated groundskeeper. Well if he had hopefully they’d be able to tell him where Sherlock was. The door swung open, “John?”

John’s mouth dropped open in horror. _Sherlock! It was Sherlock, but he looked awful! He looked ill, desperately so_. The final bit of weight on him had melted away in the last few days, leaving behind an almost skeletal looking man. He was unwashed, unshaved, and wasn’t even dressed. He was wearing a dark robe John didn’t recognize. Sherlock looked old, worn out, his eyes sunken and dull, “Sherlock, sweetheart, what have you done to yourself?”

Sherlock was staring down at John, “I’m hallucinating. I have to be. No one knows I’m here.”

“Sherlock, oh god, you have to lay down love, what happened? What did you do?” John was aghast. Sherlock looked to be on death’s door, his skin looked papery and thin, he was wasted and so miserable looking. “Darling, you aren’t hallucinating. The authorities here know Lestrade, they called about you trying to help with a case.”

“They wouldn’t listen to me. They thought I was on drugs. I’m not.” Sherlock looked drugged despite his words. He was swaying, and now his eyes seemed to have trouble focusing. “I need…”

John caught Sherlock as he fainted. He was a feather-weight in John’s arms, and anxiously the doctor carried him further inside, kicking the door shut behind him. It was dreadfully easy to bear him up. There was a bedroom only two doors down the hallway that the door opened into. It was a mess, so John decided this was where Sherlock must have bunked down, if he’d rested at all, “You haven’t eaten at all have you, you fool, what, since you left London? Sherlock, answer me, when’s the last time you ate?”

“I ate with John but he’s not mine, not really. He’s already moved in with someone. He didn’t even wait a day.” Sherlock looked like he was crying except no tears escaped his eyes. _He was severely dehydrated!_ Methodically John assessed his lover, “John doesn’t love me. Mummy has people in London. He moved right out, she said so. He moved in with a ginger woman, likely the same one who kissed him. I’m a fool a thousand times over for hoping. We were going to get _married_.” Sherlock’s voice broke, and dry sobs replaced his words, “ _John_.”

“We are! We will! I want to marry you! I’m _here_ Sherlock, it’s me. You ran away without giving me a chance. That woman…she’s not my anything! She’s just a nurse at the clinic, a far-too aggressive one. I didn’t leave Baker Street! Mrs. Hudson threw me out. Doctor Sawyer let me stay at her flat while she was out of town, I had no where else to go. Sherlock, my sweetest love, please my darling, you don’t need to be sad. I _do_ love you, I do! I’d never betray you. I’ve been looking for you all this time.”

Sherlock didn’t hear him. He was feverish and incapable of listening. John lay him carefully onto the bed. He pulled the clothes from his body and nearly cried with his lover. Sherlock was bony everywhere, his thin body so frail looking that John could hardly bear to look upon it. “Oh my love.” he whispered. Pulling the sheet and blankets up John tucked Sherlock in tightly so he would be as warm as possible, and went to inspect his resources. Finding almost nothing edible in the house, and even less that was medicinal, John called Mycroft, “He’s here. He’s starved himself all this time. I need some painkillers, possibly a sedative, and lots of groceries. He needs feeding up and I can’t leave him to go shopping.”

Mycroft sounded concerned, “I will arrange for everything to be brought to you. I know the shopkeepers, they will deliver, or I will find someone to get what you need while you are there. Take care of my brother.”

John had found a container of honey, so he heated up a kettle of water and made a hot honey drink, putting in a pinch of salt with it. Blowing on it to cool it down he took a spoon and went back to the room. Sherlock was tossing a bit, “Here my love, you need to try and get some of this in you.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered a bit and he moaned softly, but he didn’t fight it as John spooned the now tepid drink in slowly. He swallowed automatically as his body recognized what it needed and began to chase after each new spoonful, “That’s it sweetheart, one at a time, there we go.”

John realized he hadn’t even taken the bag off his back. As soon as the mug was empty John put it to the side and straightened himself out. Keeping an eye on Sherlock he hung his jacket beside Sherlock’s Belstaff, before hanging away both their spare clothes, and setting his own food supplies on the nightstand. Sherlock reeked a bit, he hadn’t taken care of himself at all. John searched out a large bowl and filled it with hot water. He found a bar of gentle soap and a flannel, and after locating some towels he went back to the bedroom and proceeded to wash Sherlock all over, drying each limb as he completed it, and with far too much ease, rolling Sherlock over to wash his back and behind. Prudently he tucked a towel beneath him. Accidents might happen and John wanted to make sure that Sherlock kept as much of his dignity as could be managed.

He changed the water and got extra towels, washing Sherlock’s greasy hair carefully before wrapping a dry towel around his head to keep him warm. The house was chilly and it took John a bit of time to find how to turn the heat up. Thankfully it was gas, and it was working, soon warm air was blowing in, but John kept Sherlock tucked into bed.

Two hours after he arrived there was a knock at the front door. A young man was standing there in the near darkness, “Are you Doctor Watson?” After confirming that he was the young man began to haul in box after box of supplies. Mycroft had been extremely thorough, and John tipped the lad heavily to help him load up the fridge and cupboards before he left. He checked on Sherlock a multitude of times, and just as he’d done earlier in the week John made a large hearty stew, and got it slow cooking in the oven. Sherlock needed sleep as much as he needed food, and the calories from the honey would be enough to refresh him temporarily.

Making another mug of it John settled himself beside the bed and coaxed Sherlock into taking some pain medication for the headache he likely had, and spooned in as much of the warm honey-water as he could tolerate. When Sherlock woke restless, John found a thick robe, wrapped his lover in it, and took him to the loo where Sherlock managed to relieve himself. He was still very bleary but he managed to focus on John, “You’re here.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, emotionless.

Clearly some things bore repeating, “You are an idiotic fool who nearly killed himself through neglect because you were mad at me. You ran off without even giving me the chance to tell you that I _wasn’t_ involved with that nurse, I never have been, and by the way, I _didn’t_ move out of our flat, Mrs. Hudson _threw me out_. I’m _not_ living with anyone! Sarah Sawyer is letting me sleep on her sofa since she got rid of the lilo, _and_ she’s not even there. She’s in Paris at a conference. I’ve been looking for you every minute since you left me.”

Sherlock blinked for a moment, “You’re not with her?”

“ _No_ you fool!” John felt his lips trembling, so great was his upset, “You ran away from me _again_ Sherlock. You left me there wondering, _again_!” Two huge tears spilled over and ran down his cheeks, “I didn’t know where you were, if you were alright. I searched for you Sherlock, I looked everywhere I could think of, I didn’t stop.”

“John?” Sherlock looked so weak, so confused.

“ _I love you Sherlock_ , just you, and no one else. I’m yours. I only want to be with you, and I want to be with just you forever, do you hear me?” Sherlock had fallen asleep again but his face was relaxed now, still too thin and gaunt looking, but now he just looked ill and not worn down, as if his youth had returned with John’s words. _He’d been heard_. John nearly wept again with gratitude. Smoothing the still damp curls from Sherlock’s forehead John checked his vital signs and made notes. Sherlock had seriously strained his body, and John needed to monitor him closely.

The kitchen timer beeped unexpectedly and John realized he’d been sitting there for nearly an hour with his fingers on Sherlock’s pulse. Rousing himself to move he nearly staggered to the kitchen, the adrenalin from his fear-filled shock now wearing off. He pulled his stew out of the oven and set it on the stove to cool. A blender stood by and even though his hands shook with weariness, John made sure all of it was mixed into a thin paste. He poured it all back into the pot and left it on the stove to cool. Pulling his clothes off John removed the tapes around his ribs the way he should have done hours previous, climbed into the bed beside Sherlock, and cuddled the thin bony body close to his. Sherlock felt a bit feverish but John had done all he could do. Eyes closing against his will John fell asleep.

It was almost black in the room when he woke. Thin fingers were tracing over his cheek and brow, the luminescent dial of their alarm clock barely enough light to make each other out. It was nearly dawn, “Sherlock? Are you alright? Do you hurt anywhere?”

“John.” Dry lips pressed to his face, “John, you’re really here.” Bony fingers clutched at his shoulders.

“Sherlock, oh sweetheart.” John kissed Sherlock back, catching his thin hand and pressing it to his heart so his lover could feel the beat of it, “Why did you run? Why did you hide from me? I was so frightened. I couldn’t rest, I couldn’t think. I needed to find you.”

“Turn the light on John.” John struggled out from under the covers and fumbled his way to the light switch. Both of them needed to cover their eyes for a moment before they could look at each other. The house was warm now at least but John wasted no time climbing back into bed. “You found me.”

“Lestrade found you, Mycroft got me here, I’m pretty much useless.” replied John, his mouth turned down unhappily, “I searched the city for you. I had to find you.”

“I’m sorry John. I was so…furious. I believed…I thought that…you…were ...” Sherlock’s words were weak sounding so John silenced him with another kiss, “Forgive me.”

“You are a complete _idiot_ Sherlock Holmes!” John felt shaky with relief. “Let me help you.” Sherlock nodded and kissed John’s cheek again, “I’m the one who is sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t been so awful to you for so long you wouldn’t have doubted me so easily, or been hurt so quickly.” John blamed himself entirely for all of this.

“I could have waited a minute or two more, I could have looked for the facts instead of going with assumptions based on jealousy and self-doubt.” Sherlock was clearly ill, he _never_ confessed so easily, not that John wanted to hear a word of apology from his lover, this would never have happened had he been a decent friend to Sherlock before this. John kissed him again, “I’m sorry for doing this John.”

“It’s _my_ fault, don’t blame yourself. I made you feel this way, _I_ did this, not you.” John hated himself so much.

Sherlock snorted weakly, “You didn’t chase me out of London John. You didn’t keep me from eating for the better part of a week, nor did you stop me from even having a drink.”

“Oh god, you weren’t _drinking_ either?” John checked Sherlock all over again. That would explain the severe dehydration, and how he’d lost so much weight so quickly. His body had no choice but to use the resources it had to keep going. “Maybe I didn’t do those things, but if I hadn’t been such a successful arse all those weeks before this, you wouldn’t have given up on _us_ so quickly.” Sherlock flinched at John’s words and he kept silent, “I’m a terrible person Sherlock, I’ve been awful to you. I’ve had no time to make that up to you, no time to let you learn to trust me the way you used to. You had no reason at all to think anything but what you thought, and every reason to believe the worst of me. I’m so sorry you didn’t even wait for me to explain but I understand, my love. Please Sherlock, forgive me, forgive me, and let me help you get better.”

“I don’t feel well John.” Sherlock looked exhausted again. Their brief conversation had taken what energy he’d had.

“Lay back Sherlock, I’m going to warm up some food for you. You need rest, and to catch up on what you haven’t taken in.” John worried. Sherlock had already been far too thin to begin with, he was weak, and these last few days would have drained his practically nonexistent resources heavily. He carefully reheated his concoction, tasting it to make sure it wasn’t too rich. Sherlock’s stomach would be tender, he needed to be eased back into eating. John seriously considered taking Sherlock to a hospital but realized they wouldn’t do more for Sherlock than he could, and he wouldn’t leave Sherlock’s side anyway. Both of them would be better off here, more or less isolated together, someplace private where they could work things out properly between them.

John ladled a mug full of his offering, and made another mug of honey-tea. Spoons in one hand and mugs in the other he went back to Sherlock. The detective was laying with his eyes closed but he opened them the second John re-entered the room. John plumped up the pillows and helped Sherlock sit up. “I can feed myself.”

“Probably but I’m going to do it anyway.” Ignoring his half-hearted protests John spoon fed him until he couldn’t manage another bite, and helped him wash it all down with his now-warm drink. Sherlock visibly responded to all the attention, and John silently promised himself to do nothing but lavish Sherlock with as much positive attention as he could for as long as necessary, “Tell me if your stomach hurts. How’s your head? Aching still?”

Sherlock’s eyes were drooping closed, “My head is alright, my stomach feels full but not uncomfortable. I might need to sleep again.”

“That’s good love, you rest then. I’m going to see to the house. I’ll check on you often.” Sherlock nodded, and John held his hand until Sherlock dozed off, now sleeping peacefully still sitting propped up. Settling the blankets neatly around his shoulders John eased himself away. Now that he wasn’t in a panic he checked over the supplies that Mycroft had sent. There was a wide spectrum of foods available now, and with relief John set about making the next meal in advance, and washing up after himself. He ate a sandwich, made hot tea for himself, and after he was done he looked around.

Sherlock had left most of the house undisturbed. There was a large library though, and in there John found books stacked into haphazard heaps, many near the now cold fireplace. The doctor could see how Sherlock had gone through manic periods, and hated himself anew for causing such distress. Now that it was light out John cleaned out the grate, lay a supply of wood in from the shed he found out back, and tidied the books away as best he could manage. There were several large oil lamps on various tables, and John realized that the old farm house had survived many years without gas and electricity, and could continue to do so in a pinch. He was grateful that other amenities like the bathrooms, had been updated to more recent standards, but appreciated that they would still be comfortable if they lost their services for any reason.

Searching further John discovered a linen closet filled with heavy quilts and spare sheets. Making a decision he shook several out and brought them downstairs. John lit the library fireplace to chase away the last of the damp feel.  Appropriating a towel rack from one of the many guest rooms, he hung the quilts out to warm up on the rack. There was still a chill in the air, but he doubted that Sherlock would spend forever sleeping in the bedroom. He'd want out as soon as he could manage. “John?”

John went right back to his lover the second he heard the faint call. Sherlock looked a bit feverish again, “Thirsty, love?” Sherlock nodded so John got him a tall glass of water. The order had included straws so Sherlock was able to drink without needing to move too much, and when he was done John sat on the edge of the bed to hold his hand once again. “Do you want to eat again?”

Sherlock gazed at John for a long moment, “I don’t _feel_ hungry but I think I should have a bit more.”

“Alright sweetheart, it won’t take me long. Rest.” Sherlock’s body had been denied so often for so long it was going to take ages to teach it to respond like normal. John made a note of the time, he’d make a point of giving something to Sherlock to eat on a regular basis. John left, used a small pot to heat a cup of soup, and brought it back to the bedroom where Sherlock was dozing again. John pressed his hand to Sherlock’s forehead, and with relief he discovered that his temperature had dropped and he wasn’t feverish any longer.

Sherlock’s eyes opened, “Did I sleep for long?”

“Only a few minutes, love, here, let’s sit up a bit.” Once again John helped Sherlock sit in bed so he could plump the pillows. Getting him settled John ignored Sherlock’s almost peevish complaints that he could feed himself, saying again, “Yes, probably, but I’m still doing it.” Sherlock looked a little too satisfied for John to feel even a bit awkward about what he was doing. Sherlock was an invalid, John loved him, and nothing was going to be right between them until John fixed it all. That meant nursing Sherlock back to health, and repairing the emotional damage John had wreaked.

“You stink.” Sherlock was gazing at him expressionlessly, “You need to wash, and shave. You’re bruised. You’re having difficulty drawing a deep breath. What happened?”

John _did_ smell. He hadn’t had a shower in a couple, or possibly even three days. He’d been too busy combing through London searching for Sherlock. “Sorry love, I’ll go wash up.” He got up to leave but Sherlock caught him in a strong if bony grip and stared at him. Clearly John hadn’t offered up the answer Sherlock had been looking for. John sighed, “Fine. I looked for you everywhere, like I said, but not everyone was willing to just _say_ they hadn’t seen you and let me go on my way.”

Sherlock was silent, “You thought I’d gone back to the dens.”

Sherlock looked grim but John answered quickly, “I didn’t know _where_ you’d gone. I asked everyone I could think of if they’d seen you. Mrs. Hudson won’t speak to me. Your mum hates me. Molly Hooper hates me. The Homeless network doesn’t really know me. No one we know will talk to me. Even Lestrade didn’t tell me where you were directly, he called Mycroft. Mycroft is still probably undecided about whether or not I need to be put down like a rabid dog.”

“Mycroft and Lestrade are in a relationship,” Sherlock said dismissively, “Of course he would call Mycroft first.” John couldn’t deal with thinking about that. Sherlock looked over him again, “Did Mrs. Hudson really throw you out?”

“She even set out boxes, and she didn’t give me time to find someplace else to stay.” That stung a great deal. John still had no idea what he was going to do with himself once Sherlock had recuperated.

“John…” Sherlock struggled to speak.

“It doesn’t matter Sherlock.” John cut him off. _He’d made his own mess, he’d clean it up somehow, and endure the consequences of his own actions_. “I’m going to go shower and have a shave. Try to sleep a bit more, alright?” John smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s curls again. The detective looked concerned but nodded, “Okay good. I won’t be long.”

John didn’t have much with him but he had a spare set of clothes for himself at least, so he took his few possessions into the bathroom with him. Wincing at bit, John managed to undress himself entirely. He’d grown a bit stiff, but all in all he felt he wasn’t too badly off. His ribs would be sore for a day or two longer, and all the bruises would fade soon enough, leaving behind no evidence of the kicking he’d received from more than one gang as a lesson. At least he wasn’t sporting a black eye, and you had to take your blessings where you found them. The hot water felt amazing, and John was so refreshed by a good washing that he felt like a new man. He needed to use the bar of soap to lather his face, but soon enough he was smooth and bare, scrubbed from top to bottom, and starving.

John dried himself off efficiently and dressed. Walking back to the bedroom he discovered Sherlock snoring loudly. The doctor could see his pulse beating strongly, the carotid artery now the featured point of Sherlock’s long neck. John often enjoyed looking at it, and now he was grateful that signs of continuing life were so blatant. It was comforting to see proof that Sherlock’s heart was still beating. That’s all that mattered to John now, that Sherlock thrived. Assured that his lover was resting comfortably, John took himself to the kitchen to make something else to eat.

Eggs and toast tucked away, and a cup of tea to go with it was all John needed. He was still very tired though, and now that he was clean as well as full he decided he needed to rest. John cleaned up first, and gathered all of Sherlock’s scattered clothing. There was a laundry room, so John took his other set of now very dirty clothes, and set them to wash. He’d dry everything after he took a nap. Yawning hugely John crawled right back into bed with Sherlock, pulled his body against his once again, and fell almost instantly asleep, his face pressed to Sherlock’s chest.

His mobile ringing woke him up. Fumbling around he answered it and found Mycroft at the other end, “He’ll be alright. We’re going to stay put. He’s not well but all he needs is food and rest, and some peace and quiet.”

“You’re certain Doctor Watson?” Mycroft was dispassionate as always, “Very well. I will inform our mother that Sherlock is well. She has been understandably worried.”

John groaned silently. Sherlock’s mother probably hated him the most! “Alright then Mycroft, if there’s any changes I’ll contact you.” There was nothing John could do about that right now. His only concern was helping Sherlock recuperate, to rebuild what he’d ruined, and to make a strong foundation for their lives together.

“I’m hungry.” grumbled Sherlock, rolling away from John and plumping up his pillow. “It must be the sound of my brother’s voice. It always brings food to mind.”

John kissed his thin arm and ruffled his hair, “What do you want to eat?”

“Hot cereal? I haven’t had any since I was a child, I feel in the mood for it.” John didn’t miss how Sherlock’s cheeks had the faintest of blushes. He was relieved. _If Sherlock was healthy enough to blush, then he was doing so much better_.

“Whatever you want.” John yawned his way out of bed and padded over to the kitchen in just his pants and vest. He put the laundry in the dryer, and got to work. It didn’t take very long to make breakfast, and though it was now late evening he made tea for both of them, and toast as well. When he got back to the bedroom Sherlock had propped himself up on his pillows and was sitting there expectantly. With a snort John perched on the edge and spoon fed Sherlock his meal, even holding his toast so he could take bites off of it. John smiled when Sherlock eyed his tea-cup meaningfully. Carefully John held it to his mouth whenever he wanted a drink. “Better?”

“Thank you John.” John smiled and felt good. _Yes, Sherlock was being a bit childish but that was better than fine, that was amazing_. He was alive and sitting in front of John, beginning to behave like a spoiled brat, and John’s heart had never felt so good. Sherlock was entitled to behave any way he wanted, and if being cared for hand and foot was what he demanded, then John was perfectly willing to keep doing so for the rest of their days, if that’s what it took to keep Sherlock happy.

“I can light the fire if you want to sit out front.” Sherlock smiled and nodded. John tucked him under the blankets to wait, and returned their dirty dishes to the kitchen. Everything was ready, and all John needed to do was strike a match. A few minutes later a healthy blaze was putting off delicious waves of heat, and the pitch in the wood filled the room with a lovely aroma. Fishing out all the still warm things he’d laundered John returned to bedroom and helped Sherlock up and into his now freshly cleaned robe. Though he was doing better John saw that Sherlock’s hands were trembling, and that he was having difficulties walking steadily. Without making a big deal of it John just fitted himself against Sherlock’s side and assisted him out of the room.

“Sit behind me John.” Sherlock sat in the center of the sofa, his face toward the fire, so John slipped in behind him and allowed Sherlock to lay back until he was resting on John’s chest. John flipped over one of the quilts he had ready, and covered Sherlock again so he was toasty front and back, and while he kept one arm wrapped about his lover, John’s free hand was employed in carding through Sherlock’s curls, and scratching at his temple. It didn’t take long before the detective was limp and snoring, his slim hands on John’s knees. John kissed the back of Sherlock’s head over and over again, and was grateful for the chance to be there like this.

Sherlock’s nap didn’t last for long. Less than an hour later he stirred himself, grumbling about his transport and needing the loo. John chuckled and helped Sherlock to the bathroom, waiting to be called in if he was needed. When he heard the shower start John went back to their bedroom and remade the bed. He was coming back to help Sherlock if he needed it when he caught the flash of headlights pulling into the driveway, “What the hell?” he glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. “Sherlock, we’ve got company.”

“Who is it?” Sherlock came out of the bathroom. He looked dewy, and much improved. He still had a lot of weight to regain, but he no longer looked to be on death’s door, “Did you check?”

“Heading to the door right now. Want to come?” Sherlock nodded so John stood under his arm again and together they slowly walked to the door. They were nearly there when they heard a key in the lock, “What?” exclaimed John in surprise.

Both of them stopped walking. The door pushed open and together they gasped, “Mummy!”

“My baby!” Mummy was wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak, her arms spread wide, “I came as soon as I could get away from everything.”

Mycroft was standing behind her, and he looked at John sympathetically. Inside John was dying. Mummy was here to kill him, destroy him, _something_ unpleasant. “Mrs. Holmes.”

She glared at him, “You may leave Doctor Watson. I am here to take care of my son. Sherlock, step away from him.” Neither of them moved, “Doctor Watson, leave now before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, “Let’s go John. We can be back in London by morning.”

“Sherlock. You are seriously ill. _You_ will be staying here. This… _creature_ …will not. _Leave_ Doctor Watson! At once!” Mummy looked furious and turned back to Mycroft, “Son, call someone to drag this person out of here. He belongs in a dungeon somewhere, not inside my home, and very certainly nowhere near my baby.” She turned and glared down at John, “Look what you have done to my little boy! Are you proud? You are a selfish and pathetic excuse for a human being. You in no way deserve the attentions of someone as talented and extraordinary as my son.”

Mycroft just sighed and stepped past his mother, “John, which room are you two in? I’ll take the other. Mummy, would you like me to bring your luggage to your suite?” Mummy’s words hit John hard. _He knew exactly how low he was. He didn’t have a thing to say in his defense, he couldn’t say anything at all_. He stood there, mute, and staring over at her in shock and dismay.

“Obey me Mycroft!” demanded Mummy. She was very angry.

“We’re in the second guest room.” Sherlock answered for John, “Take the upstairs Mycroft, I don’t really want you next door. Things might get loud.” John felt his entire head heat up. _There was no way they’d be having sex! For one, Sherlock wasn’t able to at the moment. For two, his entire family was present. It wasn’t happening_.

“Mycroft!” Mummy was scowling, “I want Doctor Watson out of my home immediately!”

Mycroft finished hauling in a large collection of suitcases from the front step, “Mummy, you won’t separate them. You may be angry with Doctor Watson, but John and Sherlock will not be _better_ apart. You know this. You recall what Sherlock was like before he met John? Look what happened when they were apart for less than a week. They remain together.”

“Why did you come here Mycroft?” she demanded furiously, “I told you I didn’t need assistance.”

“I came because I knew you planned to try and split John and Sherlock. You must not, and I will not assist you, nor will I sit back and allow you to do so to without opposition. Sherlock will not argue with you, John feels too guilty to resist you, and you are too irrational about this situation to do anything in a fair or just manner.”

Mummy huffed and John realized that Sherlock sounded just like her when he was being particularly peevish. He also realized that he was clinging to Sherlock with both arms, and that Sherlock was holding onto him just as tightly. “Is that why you are here Mummy?” Sherlock sounded grave, “You came all this way to try and destroy what we are trying to rebuild, even though you see before you the consequences of John and I _not_ being together?”

Mummy huffed again, “We will speak of this in the morning Sherlock. You are unwell, and despite my insistence it seems that neither of my sons will honor my requests. I will remain here, or wherever Sherlock goes until he is healthy again, and good luck getting me to leave you alone with him.”

 _Oh god this was a nightmare!_ Mummy walked past him, deliberately wrinkling her nose as she went by to let him know exactly how she perceived him. “Goodnight Mummy. Sleep well.” Sherlock’s grip on John hadn’t lessened an ounce. He must be using all of his current strength to cling to him but John wasn’t sorry for that. He felt threatened, and knowing that Sherlock was unwilling to give up even their embrace was highly comforting. Mycroft sighed again but followed his mother to the upper floor where John hadn’t been yet. He left all but two of their suitcases in the hallway. It looked as if Mummy was prepared for a lengthy stay. Now John was the one sighing. “It will be alright John. If she makes things too difficult we will simply return to London.”

“Mrs. Hudson doesn’t want me in her home either.” said John, and his voice was hollow. He had no home, no welcome, nothing at all.

Sherlock kissed the top of his head, “Yes she does, but if she didn’t then you and I will find another place to live. 221 B Baker Street is where we live, but our home is wherever you and I can be together. Nothing else matters.” Sherlock’s words filled John with determination. Together he and Sherlock could figure out anything, “Time to sleep John. Let’s go to bed. Tomorrow isn’t likely to be a pleasant day.”


	6. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected company has arrive and disrupted the lover's attempt at healing their relationship. What are they to do?

John slept fitfully all night long, waking over and over again to check on Sherlock who lay nearly unmoving. John finally admitted to himself that he was terrified. War had hurt him. Enemies had nearly killed him. Mary had almost destroyed him but now, now there was a problem in front of him that he simply could not fathom how to face.

Mummy.

Sherlock loved his mother. He respected her, and listened to her, well, mostly. Sherlock seldom listened to anyone. Still, Mummy was here and John tried to see that as a good thing but he could not find a way. Mummy meant strife. Mummy meant anger. Having Sherlock’s mother here meant discord and stress, two things that Sherlock was incapable of dealing with right then. He’d needed what they’d had too briefly, solitude and quiet.

Well before dawn John crept from the bed, decisions made. He was a soldier, there was no point delaying the inevitable. Moving quietly, he repacked his haversack, everything neatly folded away and packed tightly. When he was almost done heard a soft sniffle and turned to look at his lover, “You’re leaving me.” Sherlock’s eyes were open and he was watching John work, his mouth turned down, his eyes heavy with tears, misery already clouding his features.

John went right over, and stroked Sherlock’s cheek comfortingly, “No, no of course not my love. I can never leave you. _We’re_ leaving. Right now. We can’t stay here with your mother. She’s not helping, she doesn’t want to help. We have to go Sherlock, and this is the easiest way.”

Sherlock exhaled, unselfconsciously wiping away the tears, smiling softly, the relief on his face blatant, “Alright John.” Sherlock spoke so softly and continued to lay there, “Where shall we go? Back to London?”

John had been thinking about this, “No. Your mother and Mycroft can find us far too easily there. I was thinking of going north. We need to stop someplace and get a huge amount of cash, then I was thinking we can head into Scotland, maybe find a small place to bed down in until you’re better.”

“Desperate to take me back to your roots?” John snorted and Sherlock laughed very softly, “How can I help?”

“Well you’ll probably need to withdraw a lot of cash as well. We’ll drive till we find a bank and then get what we can. If we want to disappear we’ll have to stop using our conveniences.” John had wanted to pay for everything himself but forced himself to be realistic. He had a fair amount of money set aside but it would take every last pound of his to manage.

Sherlock shrugged, “Whatever it takes, I’ve lived without my mobile before.” John had to close his eyes and clench his jaw. _Two years. Sherlock had been gone for two years and he still didn’t know what had happened to his lover during that time_. Self-loathing welled up once more. _How had he caused Sherlock to suffer merely by existing?_ “Stop it John. We can’t change anything in the past. All we can do is try to make a better future.”

“Your mother hates me. She’ll hate me even more when we do this. You have to be sure this is the right decision for you too.” It worried John, it really did. He was causing even more discord in Sherlock’s life, this time with his own blood.

“That we have nothing to lose and everything to gain? I’m not letting you go John Watson, it’s always going to be you and I together. Last week I made a terrible mistake and I hurt myself. Mummy refuses to see that, she blames you, and I’ve given her no reason substantial enough to change her mind now that it is made up. I _want_ to go. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to hear the things she wants to say about you, about us. I don’t want to see Mycroft, or have him mediate between us.” Sherlock struggled to sit so John helped prop him up on the pillows.

John then crept to the kitchens and made a stack of sandwiches. There was juice so he took that instead of trying to make tea. He packed some fruit and cheese as well, that would be more than enough to last them until they were well on their way, not that getting food elsewhere should be a problem. John just wanted to make sure he was as prepared as possible to look after Sherlock. He went back to their bedroom and helped Sherlock dress as warmly as possible, and even took the quilt from the bed. Silently they let themselves out of the house and loaded themselves into the car that John had driven there. The doctor made sure Sherlock was tucked under the quilt after he was belted in, and then drove them both away without a backward glance.

Sherlock dozed for a while, but after they’d made their way past several small hamlets he pulled out his mobile and sent a detailed text to Mycroft, “I don’t want them to think you’ve kidnapped me. I’m leaving of my own free will with you, and I don’t want to be looked for by them.” John nodded and prayed that Mycroft would listen, and would make his mother listen as well. When Sherlock was done he took John’s phone and disabled the GPS and other functions on it before tucking it back into his pocket with a sigh, “It worked when I did it.”

“Yes it did.” John felt both happy and sad about that. Happy because it _was_ very effective, sad because he’d been so desperate to find Sherlock and _not_ being able to reach him had been hell. Suddenly he sighed and felt a weight lift off his shoulders. _Sherlock was beside him now, he was able to take care of him, and they had promised to be together. Nothing was more important than that, not Mummy’s good will, not the Work, not anything_. Sherlock’s hand settled lightly onto John’s thigh and when John glanced over it seemed that the detective had dozed off again, but with a faint smile on his face. Much lighter of heart John drove until they reached a large town. “Bank.”

They found a branch of the bank they used in London and managed to both procure large withdrawals from their respective accounts, “Going on holidays, forgot to do this before we left.” explained John with a smile, and got a titter of understanding from the branch manager.

They stopped at a clothier and got more things to wear. “John, you can’t live in one pair of trousers forever, and it will be colder the further north we go. Don’t be silly.” Sherlock took charge of the acquisitions and John let him. The detective looked much as he normally did, arrogantly in control, snapping out orders, eyeing everything quickly, and finally making John pay for the lot. When he was done though they had everything they needed, and plans to pick up more when required. They found a restaurant and with some concern for Sherlock’s fragile state, John ordered them a hot meal, plenty of tea and water, and made Sherlock eat as much as he could manage. He was relieved when Sherlock managed to clear his plate, but to be sure, they stopped at a chemist and picked up a large assortment of medications that might be required on their trip. Fully supplied now they headed north on a winding path, taking side-roads more often than not, and only stopping at petrol stations to relieve themselves or to refuel.

The countryside was beautiful, and became lovelier and lovelier the further they drove. When it was later in the day Sherlock found an internet café where they searched for a place to stay. “Look John, we can rent this place by the week. It’s a bit pricey but it’s almost entirely isolated.” It was the off season so the owners were very glad to hear of their interest, “We’re still renting for tonight and tomorrow, but after that we had planned to close for the season, is that alright?”

Sherlock agreed to their terms, “We have no idea how long we might be staying, it will be for far longer than a week, is that alright?”

“Well you could have the place for the three months we normally close down for, not a lot of tourists come this time of year if you don’t mind being almost entirely cut off from the world.” Sherlock negotiated the price and even though it left John gasping at the cost the detective calmly transferred the funds from his accounts, and purchased the use of a small cottage for the entirety of their closed season. “Not even Mycroft knows about these accounts, that’s how I made it through Eastern Europe without a trace, he still doesn’t know. Don’t be angry John, a lot of this money was what we earned from the Work before…well, _before_. It gave a sort of sense of connection to you to use it while I was in hiding.”

That thought actually comforted John. Even while Sherlock had been gone John had looked after him, and it soothed a ruffled part of his soul. Still, there were other matters to worry about, “Are you sure Sherlock?” John was reeling suddenly. _What about Baker Street? Didn’t they need to pay the rents on their flat? Sherlock’s flat?_ It would take John a while to remember he was no longer welcome at 221 B Baker Street _._

“Mrs. Hudson has already been compensated for the rest of the year. I did it before I ran away, our rooms are secure. I’ll send her a message saying I’ve found a place to stay and that I don’t plan to be back any time before that. We need this John. We need time away from everything that distracts us, that distracts me.” Sherlock’s hand was back on John’s thigh, squeezing gently for a moment before he did exactly as he said he would.

Once the message was sent he had to ask, “You won’t be bored?” John was concerned. Sherlock’s mind was a ferocious thing. It needed to be fed regularly.

“No John. I’m so tired. I simply cannot deal with another thing. I should have taken a break after my return but I did not.” John felt awful all over again. _Sherlock had come back wounded and damaged in more ways than one. Mary had shot him, and John had barely been there for his best friend_. His heart felt like breaking from the dastardly treatment Sherlock had endured and he swallowed back the pain, making yet another silent promise to be a better man.

John looked at his lover. Sherlock was still skeletal looking. He needed care and attention, and John was determined to give it to him. He nodded, “Okay then, let’s get going.” Sherlock smiled, and closed his eyes. They’d picked up a travel sized pillow which he was now using, falling into a light sleep almost immediately. John felt better. His lover was well fed, and resting happily beside him. They were both safe and leaving to go find a place to heal together and grow stronger. The sun was shining and the clouds in the sky seemed whiter and puffier than he’d ever seen them, and John felt content for the first time in ages. He drove.

Sherlock napped for hours. His mobile buzzed dozens of times but Sherlock didn’t even flinch, and after a while they were well outside the service area. When his stomach grumbled John found a rest area by the road, pulled over and woke Sherlock with a kiss, “Picnic supper or drive into town for a meal?” he asked with a smile. Sherlock nodded toward the sack of food so John helped him out of the car to stretch their legs, “We’ll need to find a place to stay tonight. It’s going to take us a day or so to get where we’re headed.”

“It’s not a problem John. I’m sure the next town will have appropriate accommodations.” They ate their sandwiches and drank their juice, and went on a short walk to stretch their legs. Once they were done John kept driving until they found another large town, and Sherlock found rooms for the night. John hauled in all their things, and then they went shopping once again. Now that they had a destination in mind they needed specific supplies, “We can take walks along the shoreline but it will be brisk.” John made sure that Sherlock had even more warm clothes, appropriate footwear, and they even picked up a book on birds and fish. “There’s a ferry ride involved, I hope you like fishing, because that seems to be the highlight of the entertainments offered.”

Sherlock took John to a chemist and they bought lube. It made John blush a bit to get it because Sherlock found the largest container possible. They were ages away from being able to have sex but on the other hand they _were_ going to be staying on the outskirts a small village, he’d die of blushing trying to purchase more if they needed it. He still had what he’d gotten at Sherlock’s mother’s home, it was very unlikely they need such excess but better safe than sorry. Sherlock seemed to enjoy John’s momentary bashfulness and stroked the heated flesh on his face with a thin finger, “I’m glad we’re doing this John. I feel so much better already.”

John absolutely melted inside and he felt another wave of relief wash over him. _That’s what he wanted, for Sherlock to feel good in any way that could be managed. He’d spend every last penny in his accounts if he had to, all of it was worth putting a smile on Sherlock’s face_. “I’m glad.”

Their hotel room had a good sized bathtub so John got Sherlock settled in for a hot soak, his bony knees sticking out of the water, a hot damp flannel across his eyes. They still had a fair amount of portable food left but Sherlock wasn’t hungry. John occupied himself with unloading all their new acquisitions, sorting it all, and repacking everything into their new suitcase.  “John.”

John went to the bathroom and helped Sherlock out of the tub. The tall man had trembling fingers again and he was still very shaky, “Careful now.” John cautioned him as he helped Sherlock dry off. His staring ribs and jutting hipbones troubled the doctor deeply, “Let’s have a bit of fruit, alright?” Sherlock smiled and nodded so John settled him onto the small armchair in front of the telly and let Sherlock click through the few channels in search of something to watch. They ate cheese with their snacks and drank more water, and by the time they were done Sherlock was nodding off again, “Bedtime sweetheart.”

Blearily Sherlock let himself be hefted up, and wearing only their pants both of them got into bed. Sherlock was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow but John could not drift off. He stared at Sherlock instead, soaking in his sharp cheekbones and sunken eyes, the thinness of his skin, and the comforting flutter of his pulse-point, “I love you so much Sherlock, I’m so sorry you suffered because of me.” John’s eyes filled with tears and he fought them back but he couldn’t stop them. He had so many regrets, and his pain was as heavy as his guilt. _He was despicable. He didn’t deserve to be in Sherlock’s life but he’d never leave him, not again. Look what had happened. That was on him. It was all his fault and he had to remain by Sherlock’s side to help him heal, to assist him in his life, to dedicate himself body and soul to whatever endeavours challenged the man in the future, it was the only way either of them could ever be properly happy_. “I’ll always be here for you; you won’t ever have to doubt that. I love you.” Delicately he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, and smoothed a curl away. John lay back onto his pillow and made himself close his eyes. _He needed to rest, to pace himself, this was no different than when he searched for his detective_. He needed to be ready to look after Sherlock no matter what, and so John made himself go to sleep.

When John woke the next morning he found that Sherlock was sprawled over him. His mouth was full of curls, and a pointed chin was digging into his chest. One of the detective’s hands was also on his crotch, and though John managed to restrain his reactions, the intimacy of the moment felt right to him and he smiled, “Good-morning love.”

He felt Sherlock’s lip smiling against his chest, “I like that.”

“What?”

“Being called _love_.”

Now John was the one smiling, “Well you are my love.”

“I know.” Sherlock pressed a small kiss against his skin, “It makes me feel good inside. Lighter.” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pressed kisses onto the top of his head. He was comfortable and happy, grateful to be there for Sherlock, and eager to do even more to make his lover understand how adored he was, how Sherlock would always be the center of John’s universe, how he shone brighter than the brightest star, and how John was surrounded by nothing but darkness without him. “I actually feel hungry John.”

“Well let’s do something about that.” Sherlock rolled away but not before John claimed a proper kiss, their mouths both a bit sour from sleep, but that wasn’t going to stop him. Sherlock groped him a bit more, and that made both of them laugh, “Hey, none of that now.”

“I know. I just like being able to do it.” Sherlock’s eyes were bright and merry. John gave him a wink and fetched the room-service menu. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as they looked over the selection, “I like it when you cook for me.”

John smiled again, “Well I’ll be cooking for you all the time soon enough, you’ll have to manage for now.” They settled on soft-boiled eggs and toast. While they waited for their meal to arrive they both took a fast shower, “Your hair is all crazy, you’ll need a trim soon.”

Sherlock’s hair was quite long. He hadn’t taken care of himself for ages, and it showed so many ways, “I suppose John. We’ll ask at the desk for an appropriate place. Someone must accept walk-ins.”

Sherlock picked through their new clothing. All of it was casual, and he looked odd dressed in chambray trousers and a heavy jumper. The collar of his button-down wasn’t done up all the way and he looked like a young lad, “You look like you’re still in school.”

“Shut it John! Why do you think I wear suits all the time? Apparently only Mycroft ages, and people have assumed I’m barely in my twenties forever!” Sherlock actually sounded surly and John had to laugh, “It’s not funny John Watson! You’ve _properly_ grayed at least. I’m almost willing to dye my hair if it will make me seem as dignified.”

“Dignified? What!” John couldn’t stop giggling and Sherlock scowled at him, “I started going gray ages ago, people tease me about it.”

“They’re foolish as well as jealous. I look like a lad, and I hate it.”

“You’re like an elf. You’ll probably look like a lad for decades still.” teased John.

“No! Don’t say that!” Sherlock was laughing despite himself, “You have no idea how aggravating it is. No one takes youths seriously!” In the end they didn’t bother looking. John rather liked how tousled Sherlock looked, and Sherlock seemed to be enjoying the way John was staring at him so they left it.

John loaded up the car again while Sherlock read his messages while they still had access to WiFi. “Mycroft?”

“Yes. He’s passed along several messages from Mummy. She insists that I return, has threatened to call the authorities, and has even made mention of my being in need of psychiatric assistance regarding your, as she phrased it, “brain-washing manipulations” from which I apparently need rescuing from.” Sherlock sighed, his thumbs flying over the screen, “I’m texting Lestrade and telling him the same thing I’ve told Mycroft, that we’re leaving to go someplace quiet where I can convalesce, that I haven’t been kidnapped, _or_ brain-washed, _or_ manipulated, and that I will return when _I_ decide and not before.”

Sherlock sent the message and only a minute later it vibrated, “What did Greg say?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and showed John the message, “ _LOL if ne1 brainwashed ne1 it was u doing a # on J. I’ll tell Myc to leave off. Will even vouch for J_.”

“He calls Mycroft _Myc_?”

“And he uses abbreviations to communicate.” Sherlock shut off his mobile with finality and even packed it away into a pocket of John’s haversack. “Let’s go John, we still have a long drive in front of us.”

Sherlock kept his hand on John’s thigh, only removing it to consult the road map they had purchased. They made good time and made it most of the way to their destination before late afternoon. John decided they should stop for the night since their rental wouldn’t be available until the next day, “No point getting there early. Let’s find a place for the night and take a look around.”

They rented a small room, receiving a bit of an odd look when they asked for only one bed, but that was the worst of it. John didn’t care anyway. People could think what they liked about them, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was him remaining with Sherlock to take care of him. Once a very filling dinner was enjoyed they took a slow ramble along a nature path that the hotel manager recommended. The wind was brisk, and the clouds were low but Sherlock enjoyed himself. John kept a sharp eye on his lover though so after only twenty minutes he turned them back to make their way back to their hotel. Sherlock was exhausted by the time they got back to their room, so John got him into their tub to warm him.

Sherlock looked better, but John wasn’t positive yet. There was color in his cheeks but that could be due to the wind from their walk and then the heat of the bath. He still looked gaunt and sickly, his body so narrow and wasted that John questioned himself over and over again about the wisdom of what they were doing. Sherlock read his mind, “We’re going to be alright John. It will just take some time.”

John helped him out of the bath, dried him off while Sherlock rolled his eyes, and got him into bed, once again just wearing their pants. He enjoyed the feel of Sherlock’s skin against his, and Sherlock seemed to want as much physical contact as could be managed. Cuddling down together once again they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The trip after breakfast only took an hour or two. They had a bit of a wait for the ferry but Sherlock was busy peering around with his binoculars, and playing with a monocular he’d also acquired. “Look at the different species of birdlife John!” Sherlock seemed entranced and John listened to him natter on about biodiversity, ecological stimulants that encouraged evolutionary adjustments, broad weather patterns, and Sherlock was just about to launch into an explanation of tidal forces when the ferry arrived.

The ferry was small, just big enough for a handful of vehicles to drive on, and everyone seemed like tourists or vendors. Sherlock was too busy staring everywhere in fascination, disinterested in conversation with strangers, and gave John the monocular to use as they tried to identify different sea birds. They passed small islands on their direct route to their destination, and when they disembarked most of their fellow passengers stayed put while they continued alone up the singular road that went only north or south. “Well, at least we can’t get lost.” said John with a wry smile.

“It’s marvelous John. Look at all the empty spaces!” Sherlock was a life-long city dweller. His family had places in the country, and he’d traveled extensively in his life, but John had never seen the utter contentment that now settled over his lover’s face, “This is exactly what I need.”

“Excellent.” John smiled and felt good inside himself. Perfect. This was perfect then. The drive wouldn’t take long, and sure enough they were soon turning off the highway and onto a rural route that led them to a small cottage. A ruddy complexioned woman stepped out, and she had a huge smile on her face. She was the biggest woman John had ever seen, ginger hair hidden under a knit cap, her body swathed in layers of knobby woolens, and but her eyes were bright and she seemed extremely pleased to see them, “Hello, Doctor John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sorcha Burnett, very happy to meet you!” her accent was very thick, and her grip firm. She shook both their hands in a robust manner, and eyed Sherlock up and down, “Sickly. We’d better get you out of the wind before it blows you away.” Sherlock said nothing, but he did take John’s hand as Sorcha led them inside. She eyed them sharply they but grinned, “Newly-weds?” Her smile was cheeky and full of mirth. “We get all sorts out here, but usually when the weather is a bit more loveable. We’re about to enter a bit of rough weather for the next few weeks, will that be alright?”

“Not newly-weds, we’re engaged, but rough weather sounds perfect.” Sherlock smiled at Sorcha and she laughed, “It guarantees that we won’t have visitors.”

Sorcha laughed even harder and put a kettle on for tea, “We can keep _that_ guarantee. After this week the last of the rentals close up on the island, then it’s just a few locals who run the shops. Don’t worry, I do supply runs every week if you need something, but the village isn’t far away. Still, if you don’t want to go in, you let me know and I’ll get whatever you need brought over for you.”

“John must never run out of milk for his tea. He becomes unbelievably testy if he discovers the milk is gone.” Sorcha nearly roared with laughter and clapped Sherlock firmly on the back. It rocked the detective a bit and he winced but kept smiling. “We’re here so I can recover. I need rest, quiet, and apparently a fair amount of food.”

“Don’t you worry Doctor Watson! We’ll have your sweetheart fattened up in no time. Look at me, _healthy_.” Sorcha patted her generous belly encouragingly, “Having a doctor on the island though, you might get the odd call now and then, if that’s alright.”

John smiled, “Of course. Always happy to help out.”

Sorcha gave them a broad smile served them tea along with some of the biggest muffins John had ever seen. She chatted in a friendly and engaging manner, telling them about the walks that were easily available, warning them about weather signs they needed to keep watch for so they didn’t get stuck too far from their cottage, and how to go about acquiring things for their daily needs, “It’s all very local here, most people will know who you are before the month is gone. I’ll put the word out that you aren’t looking for company but don’t be surprised if you get invited to events and so forth. Everyone is very friendly here, and always curious about what’s going on in the outer world.”

“What about online connections? Is there anywhere we can connect to the internet?” asked the detective.

“Well there’s the library in the village, but only when it’s open, and the bakery. That’s where everyone gathers to visit over a bite, so Nettie has wireless available. The young folk seem to appreciate it. Other than that you get what you pay for here, isolation and disconnect from the hustle and bustle of city life.”

Sorcha took them to their rental. She drove a green Reliant Robin, a three wheeled vehicle that seemed very old but very loved. She kept their speed low so they followed her carefully down a winding road that eventually led them to a wind-swept beach where sea grasses grew thickly, huge amounts of birds wheeled overhead, or nested along the well-populated shoreline where water crashed in long rolling curls of sea-foam. John felt a peace settle into his soul the second they spied the place they would call home for the next several weeks.

The cottage was ancient looking. The heavy walls were made of rough cut stone, and the roof was thatched nearly down to the ground. There were only a few small inset windows, and a tall chimney poked from either end of the roof, ending high above the thatch. “Don’t worry, it’s very modern on the inside. It’s tight as a drum, warm, and cozy. You have all the conveniences, just as advertised, and you’re on a generator so you don’t need to worry about power failure.” She showed them how it operated and was very simple, “I have a lad that comes by on Mondays to refuel and check on it, nothing you need to worry about. There’s a washer and dryer, as well as a dishwasher and refrigerator. It’s your responsibility to stock your own pantry but there are pots, pans, and all of that already there, and I provide linens and towels as well. One of the locals brings wood once a week, also on Monday, you won’t have to worry about that, it’s part of the rental agreement, use what you need. There are two bedrooms but I expect you’ll only be needing the one. The village is south of the ferry, the shops carry everything you could possibly want, well they have to or we’d have to head to the mainland for every little thing. Lots of the locals make things for sale, there’s a board at the bakery that advertises what people have currently available. There’s a telly and a DVD player, you can rent movies in town, or borrow from the library. I’m sure Alice won’t mind you setting up a temporary account because of how long you plan to stay. You have enough time now to get to the village and get a bit of a shop in but everything closes by six, well except the library, Alice keeps it open until nine so people can come after work. There are walking paths all around you, they go on for several miles in all directions, well, not into the water obviously, but you can hire someone to boat you around of that’s what you like. There’s fishing poles in the back closet, there are loads of fish, the ocean is generous, help yourself. Welcome to Muir Cottage.”

Sorcha shook their hands, handed Sherlock two keys to the heavy wooden front door and took her leave. They hauled in their few bags and took in their surroundings. The cottage had simple and very comfortable furnishings. The sitting room was arranged in front of a deep fireplace that already had wood laid into it, “Let’s get our shopping done before anything else, I don’t want to miss the shops.” Sherlock agreed and soon they were back on the road. They waved at Sorcha’s house as they drove by and she waved back.

The shopkeepers were friendly and filled with helpful suggestions. Soon John was hauling several bags of produce as well as staples into their car, while Sherlock browsed through a locally produced cookbook for dinner ideas. Nearly everyone assured John of the same thing, “We’ll have your man fattened up in no time.” they promised, and John had to smile. The second people heard that Sherlock was there to get well they all seemed to become instantly invested in his health, offering suggestions for food or activities, and promising to keep tourists from bothering the pair. It was all so amazingly friendly that both men were a little overwhelmed at how easily the small community seemed to embrace their presence. Everyone waved at them as they departed, the back seat filled to the brim with sacks of supplies.

“It’s like they’ve got an entire village made from Mrs. Hudson’s relations.” remarked John with some astonishment. By the time they were headed back to Muir Cottage Sherlock was drooping, his eyes heavy with weariness. John drove carefully, parking right in front of the cottage. He got Sherlock inside and settled on the heavy sofa with a thick woolly blanket tucked around him. John got the fire going, then went to the car to bring in all their purchases. While Sherlock napped John unpacked and got a simple dinner cooking. A lot of the food suggestions he’d been given took time and advanced preparation, but pasta and pre-made sauce would be good enough for tonight.

While things simmered on the stove he checked on Sherlock. His lover was sleeping well, boneless and relaxed looking. John smiled and was grateful that they were there together. He went to their bedroom and hung all their things away before he brought their bathroom kit to the loo. There was a deep tub set into the floor and it looked like it had been carved right out of whatever the rest of the cottage was made out of. He understood now why the girl at the register had urged him to pick up some hand-made bath salts that had been on display. Sherlock would feel very pampered the next time he had a soak. John marveled at the quality of their temporary home, clearly it was luxurious, every small inch of it the very best of what it was, all of it welcome.

John toasted some fresh made bread he’d bought, locally made as so many things seemed to be, and checked on their meal. Everything was nearly ready so he went back to the front room to find that Sherlock had woken up and was leafing through one of their new bird books. He looked content, simply reading the entries quietly, but when he glanced up to see John standing there the doctor got to witness Sherlock’s eyes go soft and adoring, “Hello John. Was I asleep for long?”

John came over and Sherlock scooted back far enough for the doctor to perch beside him, “Just long enough for me to get dinner together and to put everything away. Hungry?”

Sherlock nodded, “I seem to be hungry all the time now. That’s good I suppose.” John was very pleased. He helped Sherlock stand and they went to the small dining area where John seated his lover. Serving them up generous portions they dined quietly together, simply enjoying the sound of the never-ending wind blowing over the water, and the calls of the many birds outside. It was nearly dark by the time they were done, and Sherlock read excerpts from his book to John while the doctor washed up.

They fell into their new life easily. John and Sherlock slept long and heavily in the large bed they shared, and spent a portion of every day wandering up and down the beaches, or through the wooded paths that were available to them. The tide-pools entranced Sherlock nearly as much as the birdlife did, so together they had gone to the local library to check out books to learn about their new fishy neighbors and other aquatic friends. John got a verbal lesson on fishing from a garrulous old man who wore sturdy but faded clothes, his lessons simple and easy to recollect so soon enough John was standing on the shore and practicing casting out over the water. Sorcha cheered him on and arranged for John and Sherlock to obtain appropriate licenses, just in case. John had terrible luck but Sherlock seemed to find it very amusing whenever the doctor’s line got snarled, or when he hooked up more seaweed and bits of driftwood more often than not, and it was a complete surprise to both of them when John caught his first fish almost entirely by accident.

The locals had taken them under their collective wing, so John was now able to clean and fillet his catch, and listening to the careful advice from one of the young lads at the library he now knew how to dredge his catch in flour and how to fry it so it was still tender but well done. Proudly Sherlock ate up every bit of his portion, and even picked at John’s plate for more. After such success both men became obsessed with being outdoors, fishing daily, and spending much of their time taking slow careful meanders everywhere.

Sherlock blossomed. His cheeks were often rosy from the ever-blowing wind, and his body seemed to absorb every calorie it was offered. After only two weeks he had lost the gaunt and ill look that he’d had when he arrived, by three weeks he was merely too skinny, and after a full month Sherlock was beginning to look much as he had when John had first met him, still underfed and clearly convalescing, but full of energy and bursting with curiosity.

The head librarian was very amused by Sherlock’s questions about everything and with some ceremony had presented the detective with a journal made of water-proof paper and a special pencil to use in it. Thus equipped Sherlock began to make detailed drawings and notes about everything he found on the shoreline, often spending his afternoons up to his knees in tide pools, dressed in waders that went up to his chest. John fished all the time, but seldom caught anything but then, he wasn’t really trying. He just enjoyed the activity and if he lucked into a catch then dinner was on, but he was more interested in making sure Sherlock was having a good time, and he was.

At night, after dinner and dishes, after they’d both washed up, they often tumbled into bed to read side by side. Sherlock was eager to re-engage romantically, and it wasn’t really possible the first week, but during the second week when they were socked in due to the first large storm of the season, the doctor had taken his lover completely apart using only his hands and mouth. Sherlock slept for nearly twelve hours after that, and John was very satisfied. After that they made love nearly every night before falling asleep in each other’s arms, and sometimes even in the morning before they crawled out of bed. They kept it to hands and mouths, knowing the time for more wasn’t quite yet.

Sorcha cut Sherlock’s hair for him on their one-month anniversary of their arrival, “Not that you don’t make a very pretty girl, but I imagine that John rather loves the man he plans to wed.” she’d teased. Sherlock laughed with her, and submitted to her ministrations with good humor while John watched. To his surprise Sorcha sat him down on the stool right after she’d finished with Sherlock, and using a clipper, had given John a very professional and very crisply managed trim, “Soldiers ought to look like soldiers, and from the look on your Sherlock’s face, he doesn’t hate it.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed with more than the wind as they thanked her for her help and she just shooed them out, “I have five brothers, you’re hardly the first pair of boys I’ve needed to trim. Off with you now.”

When they arrived back a Muir Cottage Sherlock nearly dragged John into their bedroom, “You look amazing John, like the day we met.” His long fingered hands were all over the doctor, and with a bit of a silly grin John allowed his lover to remove every stitch of clothing on them, “I want you so much John.” Sherlock’s kisses were deep and demanding, his body lithe and narrow still, but beginning to gain a bit of mass once again. He still looked like a youth, and the way he looked at John made the doctor blush hard, as if it were his very first time, and Sherlock seemed to love that, “You’re amazing.” he whispered, “I love you John.” John’s heart felt full. Sherlock was thriving, and each day that passed he could see an improvement, and all of it went a long way toward healing the pain in his heart. He doted on Sherlock shamelessly, gave him anything he wanted, and tonight Sherlock silently asked for something that John had no intention of denying. Without a word John rolled to his front and spread his legs, “Oh John.”

John was kissed all over, his skin tasted and stroked, and he felt…worshipped. Lust gripped him so hard he nearly shuddered, and encouraged Sherlock to continue his caresses, yielding to his lover without a hint of protest. Sherlock seemed to relish in the access he had, savoring each bit of John, using his clever hands and mouth to tease him into a state of almost shameless wantonness that made the doctor spread his legs even more, to push his arse hard against Sherlock’s questing hand, and to bow his head even as his back arched, “Please.” He begged, “I want this so much.” he did, he wanted Sherlock inside him, controlling him, owning him, taking him.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice got deeper and raspier when he was aroused. Now it was almost inaudible, more of a rumble John could feel rather than hear, “My beautiful man.” John blushed again. Sherlock’s compliments always caught him off guard, and to be considered beautiful was something he thought he’d never get accustomed to but it was obvious that Sherlock thought him so. Everything about his shape and appearance seemed to arouse the detective, just as everything about the tall slender man behind him aroused the doctor. Willingly he relaxed and let Sherlock prepare him much as he had the first night they’d done this. It seemed like such a long time ago, almost like a dream, but John could not forget the feel of Sherlock’s fingers broaching him one at a time, how his body adapted easily to the demands his lover made of him, how eagerly he accepted being stretched and teased until he was rutting against the sheets in desperation.

Sherlock’s cock was so hard, and John felt the wetness of his tip as it grazed against his leg, “Please.” He begged again. He wanted it in him, splitting him wide open, filling him completely. Sherlock’s hands were shaking as he positioned himself, the lube almost dripping from John’s crease, and off of Sherlock’s cock. They went far too fast, but neither man was able to stop, even if it hurt a bit. John didn’t care about the pain. It faded quickly enough and it seemed to take too long for Sherlock to work himself into John’s body, the thickness of his shaft along with the way they had rushed preparation making it difficult for both of them. “Don’t stop.” John couldn’t stop begging. He needed this. He needed to be taken, he needed to give himself to Sherlock, to know his lover was experiencing the most pleasure he could.

“So tight. John.” Sherlock’s teeth nipped the back of John’s neck, “It feels so good. You make me feel so good John.” John groaned as he listened to Sherlock, his body becoming even more welcoming, “I love the way you look right now, spread out beneath me, your body holding me so deeply.” Sherlock pushed and rocked gently, “How hard can I fuck you John? I want to, so very much, I want to dive deep and never leave, I want my cock in you as far as it will go, I want you all around me. You have no idea how this looks, how it feels. Your arse is perfect, do you know that? It was made for me. I’ve been dreaming about this for days now, weeks, ever since you first let me take you. My soldier, my doctor, my lover. Mine, you’re all mine John Watson.”

John couldn’t think. It was all overwhelmingly good. Sherlock pierced him deeply, his gentle pushes becoming thrusts, his thrusts growing more and more urgent as John’s body relaxed and began to take him with greater ease. “More.” He moaned. He was ready. He could take it, he knew it. He heard Sherlock moan before John felt his hips begin held tight, and then Sherlock really began to fuck him. It was savage, hard, deep, rough, amazing, glorious, exactly what they both needed. The heavy sturdy bed barely moved but the mattress beneath John’s body dipped low as Sherlock used his full weight to lever himself as quickly as he could. Sherlock now had one hand on John’s hip, and the other on his shoulder, yanking him back as swiftly as he could. “Sherlock…I’m…coming.”

John could barely speak. His whole body was on fire, sweat burst from every pore, his fingers dug into the sheets desperately, and his cries were sharp and loud but not as loud as Sherlock who was animalistic and unrestrained as he fucked John through his orgasm. When the doctor was limp and spent beneath him Sherlock found hidden reserves of strength and rode him harder still, his narrow hips slamming into John’s backside with brutal force. Sherlock was beyond words now, his grunts and exclamations all he was capable of. With one last powerful thrust Sherlock stilled, and John could feel his lover release inside of him, the soft pulsing of his orgasm enough to make him nearly tremble along with him.

After some unknowable piece of time had passed Sherlock withdrew. John felt raw and empty now, well-used but so satisfied. Sherlock collapsed on the cool sheets beside John, his face red with exertion, his curls plastered to his forehead, and his chest heaving as he struggled to breath, “Amazing.” He croaked. John cleared his throat and tried to speak again, “That was so amazing.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to be able to speak for a minute or two, “I feel like I’m still coming.” John giggled weakly and Sherlock gave an almost inaudible laugh. They lay there motionless for a long time before they helped each other out of bed and into the bathroom. Once there Sherlock helped wash John down, carefully inspecting his behind, “You’re pretty sore looking.” He sounded chagrined.

“It still feels fantastic.” John reassured his lover because it did. It would take him a day or two to recover but it was so worth it. Sherlock got him some pain killers from their supply, and even changed the bedding so they could lay down after, “I’m wiped out.”

“Me too.” John closed his eyes and Sherlock threw their quilt over them, “I need to rest.” That was the last sound they made as both men fell asleep completely naked and totally satisfied, the evening hours fleeing and changing to night as the lovers recuperated together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> January 18, 2016
> 
> Currently brain-dead and incapable of writing. Doing my best to get myself back on track but nothing is working. Your patience is appreciated.
> 
> d


	7. Positively Addicted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their vacation away had worked wonders for both Sherlock and John, but not everyone sees it that way.

Another month had already gone by, and this evening they were enjoying the howl of a rough wind. The thick walls of the cottage gave not an inch, the turbulent air merely flowing over the curve and arch of the thatch. The local storms were loud and almost common-place, Sherlock and John had endured more than one already. The first big squall they’d sat through was a bit worrisome for a while, but the cottage they were in had been build to withstand so much more. Once that realization sunk in, both men relaxed and learned to enjoy the sounds of the wailing squalls, and while the storm lasted, the knowledge that they were sure to be entirely alone.

It was wonderfully intimate, undemanding yet passionate, even during the times where they weren’t making love. John spoiled Sherlock outrageously in every way he could think of, both men finding comfort and satisfaction in activities such as making dinner, or even cleaning up after themselves, simply because they were doing them together. John loved to please him in bed too, devoting a large portion of their time spent making love purely on bringing the detective pleasure.

John loved to touch Sherlock. He loved to feel how Sherlock’s body was changing, growing stronger, becoming fit once again. Sherlock glowed, his health and self-esteem becoming stronger with each second that passed. John observed how his lover healed, carefully noting all improvements with a sense of hopefulness. It would be a long while before Sherlock’s spirit caught up with his body, John had so much to make up for, but doing so wasn’t difficult, not for a moment. Their time together was a precious chance he refused to squander. Sherlock had spent his entire life feeling out of place, and John wanted to impress upon the younger man the facts of the matter; that John Hamish Watson would never let him go wanting, not ever again.

Their days were filled with self-indulgence. They went for long walks on the beach. They rambled through the acres of woodland, following well-used paths aimlessly. Sherlock memorized insects and birdlife, began collecting tiny samples of mosses and lichens, used his mobile as an archive for pictures of everything that caught his eye. They visited all the neighboring farms, purchasing home-made products of all sorts, and a medium sized packing bin needed to be obtained to contain all the presents Mrs. Hudson was accruing. John got better at fishing, and better at learning new ways to cook his catches.

They practiced living together as a couple. Sherlock and John understood that their old habits had to change if they wanted to maintain a supportive and mutually loving relationship, but at the same time they didn’t want to dramatically change one another. It was against Sherlock’s nature, and far too great a part of John’s but together they learned to compromise. Chores were more evenly divided, for one, and Sherlock made many plans about the Work, now that they were once again prepared to offer their services as a united front. It made both of them feel as if they were contributing to the necessary changes of their new life together, and they celebrated each small step they took because they took them together. Sherlock promised to cook and clean more, and John promised to be more open to the sorts of experiments Sherlock did in the kitchen, and both of them felt happy because they were doing some to make their lover feel good.

Sherlock discovered a vast and almost insatiable hunger for John, and it made John blush several times over when he was stalked through the small house, and very often thoroughly ravished. It still baffled him that his scarred, and to be totally honest, slightly saggy, physique was attractive enough to cause the taller man to often lose his words, growling his intentions out before having his way with his soldier. John had no limits on what he felt Sherlock could do to him, and that allowance had led to many pleasurable nights filled with a different sort of experimentation for Sherlock, one where he mastered the art of making John noisy. He often increased John’s arousal in deliberate increments, describing John’s sounds with words like _whorish, greedy_ , and _wanton_ , the words igniting further fires within the doctor as Sherlock proceeded to fuck him into oblivion. John was nearly as ravenous as Sherlock. As much as the detective loved being inside his beloved doctor, Sherlock also had a growing taste for having John inside him. Many mornings began with Sherlock satisfying that urge, riding John hard and sometimes ruthlessly until their day began with both of them weak of limb, covered in sweat, and trying to keep their mess from ruining their bedding yet again. Laundry was a daily chore.

John had a growing habit, one they both enjoyed. Often in the afternoon there would be a lull in their holiday activities. John would find someplace comfortable to lay out with Sherlock – the beach, or their sofa, either was good – and cuddled his sweetheart, petting him, and tenderly kissing his brow. Sherlock seemed to revel in it, basking in John’s devotions with contentment. John whispered words of love into his darling’s ear, the endearments tumbling effortless forth as he adored his partner openly. Sherlock would close his eyes, and smile softly as John toyed with his wind-blown curls, or traced over his features with knowledgeable fingers. Sherlock slept longer and longer each night, needing less naps during the day, until he was on an almost normal schedule. He admitted that the food and rest made it easier for him to work in his mind palace, and promised to mind John’s urgings for when they were on a future case. No more deprivation to make himself function, with John, Sherlock would find a better way.

As promised, the islanders left them alone but a handful of emergencies endeared the islanders to their guests. John was called one raging night to sew a gash on a fisherman’s arm closed. A different night a small child had quickly become feverish, and without John’s aid things might have gone very poorly indeed before the tot and his frantic mother could be safely transported to the mainland hospital. On yet another night, a first time mother went into labour far too early, but thanks to both John and Sherlock, she was safely delivered and her small daughter saved. Sherlock had a chance to win the islander’s love as well after a small group of lads barely old enough to be out alone went missing. Thanks to his deductive skills he found the boat they had pinched on a lark, and determined which hidden cove they’d taken shelter from a sudden storm in. They were wet, cold, hungry, scared, but safe.

Sorcha was very fond of Sherlock, and often brought him nourishing soups and stews to help fatten him up. Whenever he particularly enjoyed one she would give him the recipe, and after two months had gone by Sherlock decided to put together a recipe book made up of all the local favorites. The news raced across the island faster than the wind, and before long Sorcha was flooded with recipe cards and hand-written notes of old family specials, all destined for Sherlock, whom everyone now referred to as “Doctor John’s fine fellow”.

They were invited to many functions, and no one was upset when they refused one and all. Sherlock still wasn’t comfortable being around people, and John was man enough to admit that he was greedy for his lover’s sole company, but that just made the islanders sigh happily, and accept their refusal with a smile. “Such love between you two.” was a comment delivered more than once to the couple.

They had two weeks left on their rental when tourist season resumed. The island was flooded once more with curious sight-seers, families, and couples trying to get away from it all. The mainland ferry went back to delivering its human cargo every day. It was inevitable that someone who recognized John and Sherlock would stumble across them. It was unfortunate that the eager fan of John’s blog then decided to sneak a pap-shot of the pair enjoying a day on the beach, rough-housing with one another, both men roaring with laughter. John had Sherlock pinned to the sands when the photo was taken, a mere second before Sherlock flipped John over and stole a kiss. Delighted, the strange visitor posted it online without mentioning it to them, and told the entire world where Sherlock and John had been hiding.

Two days later, the ferry delivered the island two more visitors, one reluctant, one filled with righteous wrath. Sorcha herself brought them to their door, “John dear, there are people here to see you.”

John had been all smiles until he saw who was glaring at him from behind their large friend, “Mrs. Holmes.” He swallowed hard, and felt himself grow pale. He wasn’t prepared for this, and had put off thinking about their inevitable showdown in favor of nursing Sherlock back to full health.

Mummy snarled out her words, ignoring any sort of greeting, “Miss Burnett. I must _insist_ that you call the police immediately. This man is a kidnapper. He has stolen my son. Who knows what depravities he’s inflicted upon my poor wounded child?”

Sorcha turned and looked at Mummy as if she’d grown a second head, “Do you mean Sherlock?”

“Yes! This _criminal_ has grievously harmed my son, cheated on him a multitude of times, and is the most despicable human being to walk this earth!” Mummy was entirely furious. She was buttoned up tight inside an expensive looking long-coat, and behind her Mycroft stood in his three-piece suit, his lips pressed together, and a long-suffering expression on his face, “Call the police. I demand it.”

Sorcha’s face grew obstinate, “Can’t. No police on the island. You’d have to have a dead body in front of you for the mainlanders to come here.”

“Mrs. Holmes.” John tried to speak.

Mummy cut him off, “I saw the picture.” She was nearly spitting in his face, “You…you… _abusive monster!_ How _dare_ you lay hands on my boy? _What have you done with him? Where is he?_ ”

“He’s not here, he’s gone…” John was about to tell them that Sherlock had nipped off down the beach to pick some seaweed samples for his growing collection.

Mummy gave him no chance, instead shrieked loudly, “You’ve _killed_ him! MURDERER!” and attacked John right in the doorway, thrashing him with Mycroft’s umbrella. “My son! My baby boy! Monster! Villain! I will…” John protected his head and tried to step back but she followed him into the cottage, striking him everywhere she could manage in her wroth, and jabbing his ribs with the pointy tip until he yelped.

“Mummy?” Sherlock came around the corner of the house, his hands filled with an assortment of limp and dripping vegetation, “Mycroft, what is going on?”

Mummy moved away from John, greatly assisted by Sorcha who wasn’t gentle about pulling the elderly woman to her feet. “Your mum just tried to kill your John.” Sorcha was glaring down at Mummy, “She’s off her head.”

“Do not speak to me, _woman_!” snarled Mummy, “You may leave Miss Burnett. I am taking my son away, and I will do not accept your opinion about the authorities. Mycroft. Call them now.”

Mycroft closed his eyes wearily before opening them, “Mummy, we’ve spoken at length about your views on Doctor Watson’s behave…”

“You’re trying to throw me out of mine own home?” John watched as Sorcha grew angry. Her friendly smile turned upside down and she leaned in to speak directly to Mummy’s face, “You canna’ come to _my_ island missy, order me on my own land, and try to drive me from _my very own home_. Doctor John is a very favored guest, and _you_ are _not_. Ye’ve come ‘ere, shouting and blustering, and ye have no idea at all about these boys. What kind of mum are ye? You don’t even know your baby boy if you think that John would have killed him on these beaches! No, madam, if anyone is being thrown out of anywhere, it is you being tossed from here!”

Sorcha grasped Mummy’s sturdy coat and escorted her swiftly back to the pathway outside, “Unhand me!” gasped Mummy. She looked shocked and offended in equal measure when Sorcha dumped her ungraciously onto the cold damp sands, landing on her bottom with an astonished gasp.

“Yes, I’m sure your foot-stamping gets you everything you want back in London missy, but not here.” Sorcha was unimpressed, and pushed Mrs. Holmes onto her behind again by placing a large hand on her shoulder and pressing down.

Undignified position or no, Mummy wasn’t giving up, “That bastard was _beating_ Sherlock! On the beach! _Violently!”_ screeched Mummy, “It’s on the internet! That’s how we knew to come here.”

Sherlock put a gentle hand on Sorcha’s shoulder, and the huge woman let Mummy go but her scowl remained firmly affixed to her face, “Doctor John would _never_ lay a finger on his Sherlock to hurt him! You are obviously deranged.”

“You don’t know the truth behind John Watson!” exclaimed Mummy, “He’s a devil. He’s cruel, a heartless, pitiless philanderer. He spent weeks… _months_ … abusing Sherlock. You don’t know the facts. My boy nearly died, more than once, and all for this…this…useless, worthless, base-born _cur_.” John stood there, entirely shocked and speechless, “See? He says nothing in his own defence because there is nothing to say.” Quick as a wink Mummy got to her feet, darted forward, and slapped John so hard that he rocked back on his heels, _“Scoundrel!”_

Sherlock blanched and put himself between his mother and his lover, “Stop!” he cried, “What are you doing? Mummy, I know you are upset with John, but I fear that you’ve seriously misunderstand the facts of the matter.”

“He’s made you miserable for months!” she shouted again.

“And I _lied_ to him for years!” retorted Sherlock. “You yourself refused to speak to me after I came back, or have _you_ forgotten how you made me grovel for your attention?”

“He’s broken your heart more than once.” She rebutted, refusing to answer his question.

“After I crushed his soul with a deception so massive it’s a wonder he even lived through it!” shouted Sherlock at last, “ _I_ started this! _I’m_ the one who tricked John into believing I was dead! _I’m_ the one who left him to grieve alone, unsupported, without a clue that I was alive. He was already suffering, but I made it so much worse. I’m the one who ruined his marriage, caused him to lose the chance at being a father, and then…he…he…” Sherlock faltered, “Mummy. John has forgiven me for misdeeds so low, no one in the world would have faulted him for turning his back on me forever. Yes, he made me sad. No, he did not hurt me, not on purpose. I hurt myself, and all out of misunderstanding, which is what this is.” All of them stood silently, the wind blowing their hair carelessly around, “Mummy, I love John, and John loves me. It took all of this to force us to admit it to one another. We’ve gone through so much wretchedness, that now that we’ve worked past all of it, we’re together, finally. It’s forever, Mummy. Don’t make me choose between my family, and John. You will lose.”

Mummy was shocked into silence, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Sherlock’s voice was steady and firm, “Mummy, I love him. This isn’t a crush. This isn’t a passing fancy, or something born of guilt or pity. _I love John Watson, and he loves me_. We need one another. He’s not just someone to be with, he’s my soul, do you comprehend what I am trying to explain? I have no heart without him, no will except that which keeps him alive, and with me. Understand and accept this! We are together, we will remain together. John has asked me to marry him, and marry him I shall.”

Sorcha was still glaring at Mummy as Mycroft finally stepped forward, “Mummy, I told you this would happen. I told you that photo was taken wildly out of context. Even during the worst fights they’ve ever had with one another, John Watson has never once physically harmed Sherlock willingly.”

“What photo is this anyway?” John finally found his voice. His cheek stung a bit from the slap, and from where the umbrella had poked him, and he was also fairly certain he’d have bar shaped bruises on his back. He said nothing though.

Sherlock finally moved, stepping back to wrap his arm protectively around John’s shoulder, and looking at his mother with great seriousness, “Show us.”

Mycroft handed them his mobile, and even Sorcha leaned in for a better look, “That’s not what it seems.” said John nervously, “I wasn’t beating him, for goodness sakes!”

“We were _having fun_ ,” exclaimed Sherlock with a great deal of exasperation, “Who took this? John and I were out for some air along the water, and _we were playing_.”

“You don’t play!” Mummy sounded horrified. “You never _play_. It’s unseemly!”

“We were just having a laugh. Sherlock won.” John’s voice sounded hollow and shocked, even to him. The picture looked awful. One brief instant at just the wrong time had produced an image of aggression. John looked savage, as if he were screaming into Sherlock’s face. His hands were on Sherlock’s shoulders, and it appeared as if he’d just slammed the tall man into the ground. “This picture is…”

“… _Irrelevant_. John and I were having fun with each other, not fighting. Clearly I am alive, and undamaged. Just because I’ve never enjoyed the company _you_ prefer me to keep, does not mean that I am incapable of having a good time. John was my best friend for years, don’t forget that. We understand and respect each other. Yes, we’ve had problems. We’re human. Everyone has problems. I’m at ease around him. I can be myself with John because he already knows who I am, and how I am, and he loves me for it. Can you say that Mummy? You have always attempted to change that which makes you uncomfortable, but with a lot of work and determination, John and I have found balance with one another. Can you understand that? We’re not perfect men. In fact, I’m as flawed a human being as can possibly exist, and John _still_ loves me. He has endured so much because of my actions, and yet here he stands, beside me still. Even when things were blackest between us, he did not leave. Do you know of anyone else who would love me so? John has lost absolutely everything because of me. I have caused him to lose his family as well as his home, and to keep _him_ , I would walk away from mine.”

John stood there, feeling very hat-in-hand about being defended. It wasn’t difficult for him to recall how far into despair he’d driven Sherlock, how he’d almost lost the most important person in the world to him. “You deserve _better_ , darling,” implored Mummy, her voice suddenly soft, “You deserve…”

“I deserve _John_ ,” stated Sherlock coldly, “I’ve _earned_ John. He is one of the finest of men, and only my frankly appalling abuse of his good nature could ever have compelled him to behave as he did before we finally worked things out. John has spent years putting up with my eccentricities. While I fully confess that I would go to great lengths to avoid the negativity that clouded our relationship recently, I have only myself to blame for his reaction to my actions.”

“I didn’t raise you to settle for someone so…common.” Mummy’s soft tones disappeared, “I didn’t raise you…”

“No, you most certainly did not. You left me to nannies, and then you shipped me off to boarding school.” Sherlock was standing taller now, “Mycroft was always your favorite, and once he was gone, you had no time for the _spare heir_ , did you?” Mummy’s gasp was shocked and offended, “Once Mycroft was old enough to begin accruing the prestige you so value, I became more of a hindrance than ever. When I was a drug addicted homeless person, where were you?” Mummy was silent, her gaze now on the floor, “ _Mycroft_ saved me, he was there for me. _Detective Inspector Lestrade_ saved me, he was also there for me, and he’s not even _blood_. Mrs. Hudson took me in and gave me a home, loved me unconditionally, and withstood my storms. John Watson helped me finish the rest of my journey to wellness, and I repaid him with lies and deception. I was not there for him when he was left torn apart inside, dying from grief, suicidal, and broken. I gambled everything to keep him safe, and finally…finally,” Sherlock took John’s hand and looked into the soldier’s face, his expression earnest, “We are _together_. It’s taken half a decade of suffering to make it so. You will not sunder us, not after all of that.”

John’s heart was so full. Sherlock’s face was the picture of sincerity, the doctor could feel Sherlock’s declarations healing the last of his insecurities and self-recriminations. Yes, he’d behaved as badly as Sherlock, both in their own way hurting the one they loved the most, but they’d lived through it, and together, they were better than they’d ever been. At no point in his life had John felt so completed, so satisfied, so content. Only Sherlock was able to make John feel the scope of emotions that flooded him now. John squared his shoulders, and stood tall as well. Looking Mummy square in the eye he said, “Mrs. Holmes, you and I may never see eye-to-eye, but I _love_ Sherlock. I have no plans except to find ways to keep him happy, and by my side. I won’t ever let him feel alone again, not ever. Blessing or no, we will be married, and we will spend the rest of our lives together.” No one, not even she, would ever make him leave Sherlock again.

Mummy looked stricken and betrayed. Her eyes welled up, and a tear ran down her wrinkled cheek. Mycroft sighed impatiently, “Tears do not work on us Mummy. They never have.” Instantly she stopped, her eyes growing hard again. She opened her mouth to speak but Mycroft cut her off, “You can’t disinherit Sherlock either, he’s already received his inheritance. I ended the Trust when he ran off with John.”

“Mycroft Holmes! How could you?” Now Mummy turned her wrath onto her oldest, “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that my little brother has never been so happy. I was thinking that his entire life stabilized when he met Doctor Watson all those years ago, and it happened overnight. I was thinking that he’s never been so accepted. Doctor Watson did indeed treat Sherlock deplorably, but my little brother is not wrong, the wounds to the heart of this matter were first struck by him. Sherlock knows full well that his own foolishness and hubris are what brought about the desperate situation that required his absence for so long. They made their mistakes _because_ of their love for one another, not despite it. John Watson has loved Sherlock for as long as Sherlock has loved him. Everyone knew it, right from the minute they met at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. If John had been lacking in character, I would not have allowed his association with Sherlock to continue. I’ve done all I can to chase him away, tested him harshly in every possible manner, and he has passed with flying colors. If I did not firmly believe that Sherlock is better with John than without, Doctor Watson would not be here.”

John recalled that day so long ago when Anthea had brought him to the warehouse to be quizzed by Mycroft. “You were a right prat.”

“Yes I was. I needed to be. I know my brother better than anyone, I know what he needs. You make him happy, and whatever I can do to make that continue, I will do.” Mycroft looked down at his mother sadly, “You’ve never wanted happiness. You taught us that love was a chemical defect, tried to drive away anyone who offered Sherlock and I such a treasure. Gregory will not be driven any more than John will.”

Mummy’s lips pressed together and she looked stubbornly off into the distance. Sorcha startled everyone by heaving a big sigh, “Such unexpected happenings. Well, come along you two. I know someone who has an empty cabin you can use for the night.” Mummy turned and walked away, and with a last look at Sherlock and John, Mycroft followed her. Sorcha smiled sadly, “Your mum will get over it.”

“You’re coming to our wedding, aren’t you Sorcha?” Sherlock’s words were soft, and deferential. “Mrs. Hudson would love to meet you, if you’d care to come visit us in London.”

“Oh, laddies, I would be honored.” Sorcha beamed down at them, “Right, go on now. I’ve got guests to mind, I don’t have the energy for two rascals with naught but time on their hands.” With a sly wink she turned, and walked down the path toward Mycroft and Mummy. A large rental car was parked on the sandy road, and once they were all in, Mycroft drove away.

Two weeks later, John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was standing there, beaming at both of them, “John. I’m sorry.” She apologized the second he was within ear-shot. “I don’t often misjudge, but I misjudged you, and I regret it. Doctor Sawyer came by and had a talk with me when you were off searching for Sherlock. She explained what happened, and oh…how I regret what I did. Can you forgive me?”

John felt like crying because Mrs. Hudson was reaching her arms out to him. His voice was rough, “There’s nothing to forgive.” She hugged him tight, and Sherlock too, “I want to come home.”

“Your things are already back. Doctor Sawyer arranged to have everything returned.” Mrs. Hudson hugged him again, and kissed his cheek, “My boys. My two beautiful boys.”

The flat was warm and welcoming, as well as spotlessly clean. “You _tidied_.” accused Sherlock, “ _The dust!_ ”

“The dust will come back Sherlock,” replied Mrs. Hudson primly, “Your brother sent in a team to help me. That lovely Anthea brought in groceries, so you have food to eat. Be grateful for once.”

Sherlock looked chastened, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“You’re welcome, my dear.” She kissed their cheeks again, “I’m off. I’m sure you want to settle back in.”

*   *   *

Two months later, Sherlock and John accompanied Mrs. Hudson to the roof of Bart’s. The sun was shining, and the breeze was light. Everyone was dressed casually, and when they arrived, they were greeted by a small and unusual crowd of people who applauded when they showed up. Sherlock squeezed John’s hand tight before lacing their fingers together, and allowed Mrs. Hudson to finish leading them to stand in front of Mike Stamford, “I can’t believe you got ordained!” exclaimed John.

“Well of course I did! Who else should we trust to finish this?” Stamford winked at both of them before clearing his throat, “Welcome, all who gather here.” The ceremony didn’t take long, and the guests scattered birdseed instead of rice, but only after Sherlock and John had made their vows in front of their witnesses, Mummy included. She was stiff, but wordless, and embraced her son formally. Mrs. Hudson made up for her coldness by bursting into tears and hugging them repeatedly. John and Sherlock also enjoyed a crushing embrace from Sorcha who had accepted their invitation to attend their wedding. There were smiles aplenty, and the newlyweds didn’t miss the golden glitter of rings that now adorned both Mycroft and Greg’s fingers. The pair of them had secretly gotten married while Sherlock and John were on holiday, but had publically declared their union right before John and Sherlock posted the banns for themselves. Like it or not, Mummy had to accept that her sons were wed.

They took a short trip for their honeymoon, another jaunt into Scotland, this time staying at a resort run by Sorcha’s distant cousin, deep in the highlands. The stone cottage was even more isolated than Muir Cottage, but neither man cared for company that wasn’t each other. “I could take your name, if you wanted.” Sherlock was kissing John’s throat, whispering huskily into the sweat-beaded skin there.

John groaned because Sherlock’s hand was busy beneath his pants, rubbing and squeezing the hard flesh beneath, “No, there has to be a Sherlock Holmes.” There was silence for a minute or two as they kissed passionately, “I could take yours.”

Sherlock pushed away a bit, his eyes soft and filled with love, “No. You are John Watson, my husband. I don’t want you to change.” He distracted his new spouse with deliberation, using his hands to tease and arouse John until the smaller man was writhing beneath him, “My Captain.”

John surprised Sherlock by twisting up, and managing to get his lover beneath him. With a cheeky grin he replied, “My Consulting Detective.” Sherlock smiled back, his heart full near to bursting. Their return to London two months ago had been the first step into reclaiming their old lives. Sherlock worked out a deal with Lestrade to continue being on call for the more interesting crimes, and Sarah Sawyer had worked out a deal with John for him to work on an on-call basis for her clinic. Together they focused on cases, their now public partnership burning its way across the internet until the entire world seemed to know that they were together at last. They were busy right from the first morning they’d returned, and had to brutally carve a hole in their packed scheduled in order to get married, and have a brief honeymoon.

Life was both familiar and different for them. Living at 221 B Baker Street was better than ever, Sherlock’s old bedroom now used to store the trappings of their work, while John’s room was transformed into a cozy love-nest where they were able to enjoy each other without keeping Mrs. Hudson up all hours. Sherlock was incapable of being quiet when John was in a certain mood, and nothing thrilled the two of them more than when John topped in bed.

John was enjoying the crooked smile on Sherlock’s face, the flush of his cheeks, and the happiness in his eyes. Allowing his gaze to wander, John admired the taut tight muscles that covered his husband’s body, the healthy glow that emanated from him, and felt contentment deep in his soul, “I love you.” Sherlock’s blush would never get old. He looked defenseless as he gazed up at John, “You are my entire world, I love you so much Sherlock.”

“John.” Sherlock swallowed hard and seemed incapable of speaking. John smiled to himself and felt proud. He loved it when Sherlock became wordless. Filled with grateful adoration, John bent his head and began to demonstrate the worshipfulness he felt. _“John!”_ Sherlock’s back arched as John started.

All of Sherlock was beautiful in John’s eyes, and though they were no strangers to rough and fast sex when time was short, there was nothing wrong with taking the long route to orgasm. With care, John licked and nibbled his way over his husband’s body, reveling in the tastes and textures, feeling pride in how much Sherlock had healed since they’d finally sorted things out. Sherlock’s body was the visible result of that healing, but for John, it was his mind that showed the most positive improvements.

 Sherlock had always been brilliant, but now, grounded in John’s love, filled with it, gorged on it, he became _scintillating_. No longer was Sherlock driven to acts of extremism to defray the impacts of boredom and idleness, no longer did he struggle to contain himself to keep from harm. Now, Sherlock was able to process information at speeds and levels he’d never attained before, surpassing even Mycroft in his abilities. His brother had been very disgruntled, but temporarily, since Sherlock still had no interest in the power games that politics brought. He was devoted to the Work as much as he ever had been, cases were all that mattered to him, cases, and John. “Turn over.” Ordered John, and eagerly Sherlock obeyed, already thrusting his arse upward. With a grin John paused only for a fraction of a second before beginning.

He licked Sherlock from bollocks to his sacrum. He loved mapping out his lover’s body, taking the time to pleasure him from head to toe, even when Sherlock began to almost whine with impatience, “Now John!”

“Shh, love, shh.” John gentled Sherlock with a hand smoothed down his back, and got serious with what he was about. Burying his face between Sherlock’s ample cheeks, John set to work opening him. Wetting his fluttering hole with his tongue, John began with saliva to slick the way. He loved the salty musk he could smell, the earthy richness of Sherlock’s most intimate places. John loved the fact that it was his right, and his right alone, to bring Sherlock such bliss. Running a careful hand to see how Sherlock’s erection was coming along, John discovered that his lover was already hard, and that his tip was leaking pre-come already. “Eager, are we?” He loved teasing.

“Are we going to consummate this marriage or not?” growled Sherlock impatiently, wiggling his behind meaningfully. “Get on with it!”

“Git.” John got on with it, still smiling as he bent his head to the task. He grasped two generous handfuls of flesh, “I love your arse,” John was almost growling as he pressed closer, “Gorgeous.”

Sherlock was already moaning softly, but John knew he could pull more than those soft sounds out of him. Working carefully, he swirled his tongue exactly right, knowing just what it took to make Sherlock almost grunt. “Just do it, John!”

John scolded him, “I’m not hurting you by shoving my cock in without some prep first.” They’d done that once. _Once_. Sherlock, in his infinite impatience, had convinced an overly aroused John to skip the fingering part of their night, positive that their frequent copulations were sufficient. One week of recuperation, and no small amount of chagrined tears on his part beforehand had taught them both a valuable lesson. Only John knew that Sherlock had wept like child that night. “Relax love, you know it’s worth the wait.”

“I don’t _want_ to _wait_.” Sherlock thrust his arse back again, “John!” he demanded, sounding almost angry, “Just fuck me already! I’m not a delicate flower!”

John slapped that same arse hard enough to sting, and Sherlock subsided with a small gasp, “See? You don’t like pain. Shut it Sherlock, let me get you ready.” He introduced a finger, gauging how Sherlock’s body resisted then yielded, “My little petal.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I won’t… _Petal_.” John grinned. He loved winding Sherlock up. It made the detective crazy, and when he was as turned on as he was right then, things got…a tad wild, “My sweet pretty Petal.”

“John…” Sherlock began to complain again but John pushed in a second finger, curling them just right, and stole away Sherlock’s ability to form words. “Ah.” Sherlock wasn’t going to take no for an answer for long. As soon as John introduced a third finger, but before he got around to four, Sherlock maneuvered his new husband onto his back, braced his feet, and sat himself down. “FUCK!” he shouted, struggling to hide the moments of agony he experienced. He grabbed up their lube and did his best to slick himself, but most of it trickled away. Despite that, Sherlock began to ride John hard and fast, his cock slapping against the inside of his thigh, and against his belly as his arse began to smack against John’s upper legs. “I want your come in me, I want to be absolutely filled with you.”

John’s eyes threatened to cross, the sensations were abrupt and intense. Sherlock was tight, almost painfully so, and he knew that the man would be sore the next day. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his mouth open, and the noises he was making were animalistic, and savage, “Fucking hell.” John grasped Sherlock’s hips, and flipped them both over. Pushing those long legs up, John spread Sherlock so his knees were on the mattress, and thrust in deep, “Sherlock!”

“Harder John!” demanded Sherlock, “Faster!” John obliged. Letting go any worries he had about hurting Sherlock he began to fuck Sherlock with savagery. It didn’t take long before they were drenched in sweat, almost clawing at one another, Sherlock’s body absorbing the impact of John’s drive inward with twitches and gasps, “Yes, right there, right there!”

John was practically climbing Sherlock now. Somehow or other he was straddling Sherlock’s crotch, his left leg over Sherlock’s right, his hips slamming downward to bury himself to his balls with each stroke. Sherlock’s cries were a mix of deep grunts and panting wails, his long fingered hands digging into John’s hips and arse so hard they were bruising him. He didn’t care. It felt too good, and nothing was going to stop him now. John had lost all grace and control, now driven to simply fuck Sherlock as fast as he could, working his shaft in and out as quickly as he could manage. He felt his testicles drawing up tighter and tighter, and heard his breath whistling through his teeth as he panted.

Suddenly Sherlock seemed to spasm from head to toe. His long arms flailed everywhere, knocking the pillows to the floor, and punching the headboard sharply, “John!” The tendons in his long neck were prominent, and his face was beet red. With eyes squeezed shut John watched as Sherlock fisted himself roughly, the head of his penis even redder than his face before a long stream of come shot out, his hole clenching over John almost painfully, his seed splattering against his shoulder and arm.

John was over-heated now, desperate for his own release, and to that end he used Sherlock’s well-satisfied body to please himself. His back arched over and over again as he drove himself inward. Sherlock’s right leg flopped crazily as John fucked him, as if the detective no longer had even the most basic control over his transport. The fingers that had dug into his flesh now slid around his body, pulling his cheeks wide, and rudely Sherlock managed to stick one of them right up John’s bum.

It hurt and it was perfect. With a primal shout John ejaculated. His vision blurred, and he knew he was shouting ridiculous things, but he couldn’t even hear over the pounding in his ears, the way his heart thundered, and his lungs bellowed, struggling to keep his oxygen level from lowering too drastically. The orgasm itself was so intense that he felt his hips wiggling, his back arching, and even his toes curled so hard his feet were cramping. Collapsing over his now-christened husband, John fought to regain his breath, swearing when he could, and shaking from intense aftershocks. When he finally calmed a bit Sherlock said in a weak and wobbly voice, “I think I’m pregnant.”

John laughed. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t stop. With each giggle he slipped out of Sherlock, and a very wet sounding rude noise accompanied his departure. Sherlock laughed too, and unintentionally pushed John’s deflating penis completely from his body. “Oh fuck.” He giggled again.

“We just did.” Sherlock was laughing loudly now, his whole body flushed, and dewy with sweat. When they calmed a bit he snorted, “You said you were going fuck me so hard you’d be entirely inside me, and I’m pretty sure you promised to come so much it would be coming out of every orifice.”

It took a lot of effort but John managed to blush. “Shut it.” Sherlock chuckled warmly and rubbed his hands up and down John’s sweaty back. John managed to lift himself a bit, and looked down at his husband. Sherlock was gazing at him, the smile on his face made of nothing but love and delight. He looked so young, so happy, and so sated that John felt the last of his self-hate disappear, “I love you. You make me feel right.”

Sherlock’s crooked smile was back, “It’s the same with me. I feel…happy, and it goes all the way through me. You do that for me. I love you John.” John felt so proud. Sherlock was so much better than he had been just a few months ago, his body and mind functioning at peak efficiency, his heart and soul in John’s tender care. Silently John promised to keep Sherlock looking this happy for the rest of their days. When they could move again, John drew a steaming hot bath, and they soaked their aches away. The days ahead would be filled with adventures, happy moments, and fond memories. They lit each other up, and had left their darkness behind. Later that night, as they drifted to sleep in each other’s arms, John thanked the universe for making Sherlock, and allowing them to have all the experiences they’d had. Without the bad, he might not ever have learned to appreciate the good, and John would never forget it. They’d come full circle at long last, and he would never regret any of it. When his eyes closed, John’s dreams began, and just like his life, they were filled with Sherlock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long wait is over, and the end has happened. I thank everyone who waited so very long for me to complete this story. The initial concept was one I'd gotten when I read a report about recovering addicts, and how they were able to overcome their trials when in a positive environment. I didn't dwell too much on the darker aspects, but felt that if anyone would understand, it would be John and Sherlock.
> 
> d

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how this made you feel! FOR SCIENCE!


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